


Mining Energon or Mining Sparks

by Delirious21



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Complicated Relationships, Dubious Consent, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gladiators, Golden Age Cybertron, M/M, Mech Preg (Transformers), Mining Post C-12, OC may or may not be an emotional whore, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-War, Pre-War, Prostitution, Sexual Violence, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Valve Play (Transformers)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2019-10-25 06:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 25,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17719619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delirious21/pseuds/Delirious21
Summary: Splint's home was in the mines on Croetus 12, one of Cybertron's many mining outposts. When a violent revolt upsets the balance he's grown accustomed to, Splint flees. He quickly finds himself trapped in The Happy Mech, a wetware club hidden in the shadows of Iacon's business district. The work isn't exactly clean, but it puts a roof over his helm and keeps him fed. As Splint struggles to get to know himself and this new world, he is too focused on assimilating to realize that Cybertron is falling apart, and he is too. (COMPLETED)





	1. Revolt

**Author's Note:**

> Starts off during IDW's Megatron Origin comic, Issue #1. No copyright infringement intended.

All Splint knew were the mines. He knew them better than he knew himself; the weak points in the rock, ore hotspots, support pillars that couldn’t be removed, everything. He wasn’t considered a genius for knowing it though. As his superiors loved to remind him, blows reigning down on his back, he was just another nobody. Another cog in the machine that wasn’t built for him. Splint’s entire life was dedicated to Mining Outpost C-12, where it all began. 

He knew the mech, the hulking silver one, that started the uproar. They’d worked side by side for eons but never spoke a word. There was an air to the mech that made Splint’s wires twitch with anxiety. He was massive, easily towering over Splint, and he threw his all into every swing of the pickaxe. He was another nobody, but the scowl welded onto his face mimicked that of their superiors’: borderline taunting. 

When half the advisors were pulled from the mine, everyone caught on. Something was happening, and they wouldn’t be told till the last nano-click. Like always. In those last few cycles, the big silver mech started whispering, muttering simple things. Socializing when no one was looking: making friends, allies.

Not long after, everyone was called into assembly. Senator Decimus had arrived, and he stood on a raised platform, looking down on the workers like they belonged in a dump, eyes slanted and lips pressed tight. It was nothing new. His guards stood at an angle, tense and waiting. 

Splint hovered near the rear of the crowd, shifting from pede to pede, optics downcast as his servos wrung themselves in front of him. This is it, he thought. He knew the mine had been producing less and less energon; There were just no more streams to be harvested. Which meant they were wasting time, wasting resources. He stopped listening after Senator Decimus thanked them for their hard work. Around him, frames pressed closer, fists balled, mouths gaping, shouting obscenities, trying to come to reason with the uncertainty of their future. 

“The Senate takes care of its people.”

Splint tried to back away, wary of the rage fogging the domed room. Someone shouldered past and knocked him to the ground. He scrambled to get up, but his processor was swimming, and he kept losing any solid footing. He barely registered a servo wrapping around his arm and hauling him to his pedes. There was screaming coming from the front of the room, and Splint hunched in on himself even as a rustic green mech led him to the back of the assembly. Guards marked each entrance and it was as far as they could get. 

“Hey, you okay?”

Splint looked up, finally meeting the blazing red optics of his savior. The mech was a head or so shorter than Splint, but he was compact and strong, with broad, angled shoulders and a grip more gentle than any miner’s. 

“I think so. Just…” Splint trailed off as he glanced back to the crowd. The screaming stopped, replaced by shrieks and gasps of terror. He could just barely see the Senator above the crowd, and there was something pleasing about watching him fall, disappear into the masses. Splint grabbed his savior’s wrist. 

“What’s going on?” he asked. The other mech shrugged, but his brow was crunched together and his fists gripping a pickaxe Splint hadn’t noticed before. “We were supposed to leave our tools at our stations,” Splint said. 

“Yeah, well I had a feeling I’d be needing mine.” The mech disappeared into the crowd before Splint could stop him. He reappeared moments later, terror morphing his faceplates. “We gotta go, now!”

The guards behind them prepared their blasters and rushed to the front, abandoning their posts at the doors. The mech yanked Splint forward just as the shots rang out. Splint could barely keep up with the stocky mech, but he quickly realized where they were headed. They breezed past the mines and into the supervisor chambers and came to a skidding stop in front of a row of pristine, yellow-rimmed escape pods. 

As the new mech tried to open one of the pods, Splint keeled over. He felt like purging his chambers and slamming his fist into a wall at the same time. “What’s going on?” he asked through clenched dentae. “Who are you?”

The mech paused then returned to the control panel next to the first pod. “A riot, that’s what’s happening. Some dumb hunk of scrap metal hurt the Senator, and slag was about to hit the fan.” He pulled a silver keycard out of a seam in his neck. “You heard the shots. It’s a full-out war zone back there.” The hatch to the pod hissed and popped open.  
Splint didn’t move as the mech entered the pod. The mine was his home; It always had been. He couldn’t just leave, could he? It wasn’t as if he had a box full of pleasant memories, but it was all he ever knew. The beatings, the rough clasp of digits around the melded handle of a pickaxe, the comfort of familiar, nameless faces. 

“Hey, you coming or what?”

Splint stepped into the pod. 

“We’re underground, how will this work?”

The other mech pushed some buttons on the interior control panel and the door latched. “When they built this place, they made ventilation shafts.” The engines whirred to life. “Once they realized folks like you and me didn’t need safety precautions against all the toxins underground, that we were expendable, they dropped escape pods into the vents. And, voila, emergency route for the mechs that actually matter.” 

As the pod began to rise, Splint strapped himself in. There was barely enough room for the two of them, and he honestly didn’t care that the stranger had to stand to man the controls. Splint watched the tunnel fade away through a small window next to his seat. Goodbye.

From the controls, the smaller mech asked, “What’s your name? If you got one, that is.”

Splint tore his gaze away from Croteus 12 and its endless expanse of rock. “You never told me yours.”

“Oh.” The mech chuckled. “Guess I got distracted. My pals...” his shoulders slumped briefly. “I’m Croon.”

There was something appealing about the odd distinction between Croon’s personality and his name. Splint almost asked why that was his name, but he figured it wouldn’t be a pleasant conversation. 

“Splint.”

A silence passed between the two. 

“You know,” Croon said. “If you need a place to stay or anything, I know a mech. All you gotta do is work for him and he’ll give you a place to stay. It’s a real nice hook up, if you ask me.” 

Splint almost refused, but he realized he had no idea what he was doing. He could barely remember the cycles he spent on Cybertron, in his earliest stage of life. They were filled with confusion and fear and constant running. 

“Is that where you are going?” he asked.

Croon glanced over his shoulder. “You bet. I’ll figure out bunking, and as long as you ain’t squeamish, you’ll do fine.” He eyed Splint, optics trailing the length of his slim figure. “And don’t worry ‘bout being shy. Trust me, you’ll sell like hotcakes.” He winked and Splint managed a grim smile. 

“Thank you, Croon.”


	2. Meet: Crion

Splint certainly hadn’t been expecting this. In the throws of Iacon, frames illuminated by the flashing neon lights, he and Croon stood outside a bar: The Happy Mech. The building itself fit right in with the high-end locale. Every possible surface was polished and gleaming, the metal catching the lights and distorting them like an old oil spill. A gorgeous, breathtaking oil spill. 

The mech standing out front the door was possibly the biggest one Splint had ever seen. He towered over them, arms crossed and optics squinted. He reminded Splint of Senator Decimus with his scrutinizing gaze and upright posture. 

Croon nudged Splint. “Trust me, you’ll love it here. Fresh energon, fancy company, the whole nine yards.” 

Splint’s chambers churned as he followed Croon up to the bouncer. Croon just shot him a grin and said, “How’s it going, Bust?” and they were in. They slipped around the edge of a full dancefloor and a bustling bar, the music and dim lighting warming Splint’s circuits. He hadn’t heard music in so long, and he didn’t mind the bounce of it, or the volume. Everyone in the joint seemed so immaculate, so clean and perfect, that Splint cringed at the sight of his broken, filthy frame. 

Croon tossed him a grin and they slipped behind an empty stage with velvet curtains. There was a small office tucked behind the stage, and a second hulking mech guarded the door. He opened the door for them, and Croon spared him a wink. As they passed, the mech slapped Splint’s rear and he yelped. Croon and the guard chuckled as the door closed. 

Inside, the lighting wasn’t much different than the dance floor, dim and with a hint of red. The far wall was plastered with mugshots of mechs, some with red x’s over them, and others with nothing but their blank, if not annoyed expressions. Behind a giant, curiously empty desk sat a scrawny red and yellow mech. His helm was too big for his body, and his frame mimicked that of a starved mech’s. But he was plastered in jewels and odd symbols, and his grin was so lopsided it was impossible to miss. 

Croon leaned over the desk and shook the mech’s servo. “How’ve you been, Crion?” he asked. 

The mech, Crion, let go of Croon’s servo and pulled him in to kiss his forehelm. “Ah, it’s been good, kid. Real good. Profits are off the chart, and my favorite mech is back in town.” His beady red optics slid to Splint. “And he even brought a friend.”

Croon grinned and pulled Splint closer. “This is my good pal Splint. He’s a bit shy, but I figure you don’t come across many like him in your line of work.”

Splint shifted on his pedes. He felt like a slab of meat being appraised by a butcher. 

“You’re not wrong.” Crion rubbed his chin. “Splint, how much did Croon here tell you about my business?”

“Not much, sir,” he choked out. “But I’ve got nowhere else to go, and I’m a hard worker and a quick learner, too.”

Crion leaned back into his chair. “You ever ‘face, Splint?”

Splint froze. “Excuse me?” Croon nudged his side, and his words rang in Splint’s helm. Energon and a place to stay. “Yes, sir.”

“You a fan?” Crion was watching him closely, taking in every movement and shaky breath. “Croon’s right, you know. You’re a cute mech, and if you’re up for it, you could make some damn good money.”

Splint, helm lightheaded, nodded. “I will do whatever it takes, sir.” He was only vaguely aware of what he was agreeing to, but he was certain that there were no other options for a mech involved with the C-12 riots and Senator Decimus’ injury. He needed to hide, to burrow underground, and this was as deep as it got. 

Crion tapped the top of the desk. “Good, good. Now,” his optics flicked between Splint and Croon. “You two need a good cleaning before I can let you represent me. There’s a joint a few blocks down, does all my work. Paint jobs, anything. He’ll clean you two up and make you lookin’ good as new.” He paused to stand up, stretching out his limbs. “Croon, would you like to stay for this next part?”

Croon shrugged. “Sure.” He looked to Splint. “You okay with that?”

Splint had no idea what they were talking about, but he nodded anyway. The thought of being alone with that shifty, crooked grin and too-wide optics left him shuddering.   
Crion circled his desk and sat on the edge. “I never let a mech work for me unless I’m certain they’ll do good,” he said.

Oh. Splint shivered and swallowed down a lump the size of Cybertron. “What would you like me to do to prove myself?”

Croon situated himself into one of the chairs diagonal to Crion, a fixed grin on his faceplates. Crion’s panel slid aside to reveal a slim, but very long, yellow and red, half-pressurized, ribbed spike. Below was a plain red valve, its exterior node pulsing orange. Splint inched closer and knelt before Crion as if in a trance. Optics shuttered, he gently grazed his digits along the seams in the older mech’s groin. 

Crion chuckled at Splint’s tentative touches. “Some mechs may love a tease, but I’m busy, kid. Get on with it.”

Splint blinked a few times before wrapping his intake around the end of Crion’s spike. He bobbed as best as he could until the spike was fully pressurized. Crion grabbed Splint’s helm and pulled him up, his voice now a raspy rumble. 

“Stand up and open that panel of yours.”

Splint did as he was told, and his cheeks turned red from the embarrassment. His valve hadn’t been used in so long that, just at the thought of contact with another mech, he was wet. Crion purred and grabbed his hips. 

“Now, show me what you can do,” he said.

Splint bit his lip and turned around, reaching back to position Crion’s spike under his fluttering valve. Twirling his hips, he lowered himself onto the tip. Crion’s servos tightened their grip on Splint’s hips.

“Slag, you’re tight,” Crion groaned. 

Croon bit back a laugh, and Splint’s charge flared when he looked over to see his new friend’s spike jutting proudly into the air, beading transfluid. Croon caught him looking and stood up, right in front of Splint. As Splint lowered himself the rest of the way onto Crion’s spike, his chassis scraped against Croon’s and he gasped. He rocked back, reveling in the way Crion’s spike reached further than anything he’d had before, striking nodes previously untouched, and reducing him to shivers and moans. 

Crion bucked and Splint cried out, bouncing faster and harder on that damned spike, chasing the charge warming his circuits. In front of him, Croon was fervently touching himself, but he was so close and his spike kept bobbing up against Splint that he couldn’t help when his own spike escaped its housing and quickly pressurized. Croon was all too happy to wrap both of his servos around both of their spikes. Crion was cursing obscenities as his own spike twitched and threatened overload. 

Splint arched his back and sank down onto Crion one last time, the combination of sensations overwhelming him. His spike spurt transfluid all over his and Croon’s chassis, and Croon overloaded mere nano-clicks before Crion emptied himself into Splint. Splint’s valve cycled down and milked Crion dry, starved of attention and transfluid. 

Crion pulled out and used a rag from his desk to clean himself off before passing it to Splint. “Yuh did good, kid,” he panted. “You’re hired.”


	3. Paint Job

Croon wouldn’t stop talking about how great of a time Splint would have at The Happy Mech. He gave him the rundown on times, prices, and even gave him some tips on what to do with an unhappy customer. Because those were bound to happen, he said. 

By the time they reached the joint Crion sent them to, Splint knew just about everything there was to the business. Including the fact that he never had to do anything if he didn’t want to. In fact, if he ever felt uncomfortable he could just call in one of the security crew and they’d take care of it. That made Splint feel a lot better. 

Inside the building there was a single mech who was hunched over what looked like a spike mod. When he realized he had company, he stood and walked over.

“Heya, boys. What can I do yuh for?” he said.

Croon grinned. “Crion sent us.”

“Ah, new recruits I assume?” He waved his servo and headed deeper into the building. “Right this way.” They left the big main room and all of its gadgets and tools behind them, trading it out for a cluster of washracks and waxing stations. “Alright, so before I can do anything, I need you two all cleaned up. Holler when you’re done.” The curvy blue mech disappeared down the hall. 

Croon flipped on the water and started scrubbing. “I’m tellin’ you, this guy is the best. When I first met Crion I was this ugly brown square, basically. This mech turned me into one hot piece of aft.”

Splint helped Croon reach his back. “How did you go from this life to the mines?” he asked.

Croon shrugged. “They just picked me off the streets. I was headed back to my apartment, and a few guys snagged me.” He paused. “I’m just glad to be back.”

“Were they reported?”

“Huh?” Croon turned around, but there was no grin. His voice turned bitter and his mouth twisted into a scowl. “What do you think? We’re not exactly top priority for, well, anyone out here. But that’s different with Crion. He makes yuh feel like family.”

 

“I’m just saying, you look good. Like, really good.” Croon, hands on his broad hips, shook his head. 

Croon was no longer a miner, he was a polished light blue, civilized mech with a decorative fin on his helm and accented biolights. The excess mining armor had been removed, and he was smooth and curved in all the right places. Splint didn’t think he could beat Croon’s looks. After all, he was just silver with hot red highlights wrapping around his thighs and hips, coming to a looping end around his throat and dipping down to graze his chest. The mech who worked on them hadn’t changed much about Splint’s figure, except for the excess armor and sanding down rough, broken frame ends. 

Ignoring Croon’s compliments for the fiftieth time, Splint ran a manicured digit over the curve of his hip. He’d never felt so clean before, and the scent of polish lingered pleasantly on his frame. 

Croon rolled his optics. “Come on, let’s go get settled into our apartment,” he said. “Crion sets all his mechs up in the same building. He owns that too, but the rules are pretty strict. No partying, no fighting, no hooking up with other residents, and definitely no strangers.”

Splint couldn’t help but notice the doubletakes and lustful stares flooding them as they walked. He felt like shrinking back and hiding in an alley until everyone went away, but there was something warm and fuzzy tickling his tanks. Iacon was Cybertron’s capital, and just about every mech passing them was important in some way, and the looks they were giving Splint… He angled his optics down, but a grin fixed itself to his faceplates. 

“This is it,” Croon announced, waving his servo at a towering building with balconies and wide expanses of windows on each floor. Most of the apartments were hidden behind silky velvet curtains closed tight, but one near the middle was open.

Splint couldn’t tear his optics from the sight of a royal blue mech pressed flush against the windows, spike rubbing transfluid on the glass, mouth open and helm thrown back as a second mech plowed into him from behind.

Croon followed Splint’s gaze and chuckled. “That’s Doll. Hot, ain’t he?”

Splint flushed at the understatement. “I thought you weren’t aloud to...” his voice dipped to a whisper. “...interface with other patrons.”

Leading the way into a marble-floored, flourishly decorated lobby, Croon shrugged. “There are loopholes. Besides, the only cameras are in the halls and stuff. And it’s not like the security crew can go knocking down doors. Plus, any guests have to be registered.” He winked at a passing green mech with sharp, pointed features and a waist so small Splint could wrap a servo around it. “Trust me, the security knows what they’re doing.”

Croon pushed the call button for an elevator and Splint couldn’t help but wonder where the guards were when Croon was abducted. That one little bug stuck to the roof of his intake as they rode the elevator to the thirtieth floor, which Croon had to swipe a keycard to go up to. 

“There are a lot of mechs here,” Splint wondered aloud as Croon walked up to one of the two doors on the floor. 

“Not really. At least, not all of them work at Happy. That’s not Crion’s only empire, but it’s the one with the best rewards.” The door clicked open and Croon strut in, taking a deep breath. “Ah, it’s good to be home.”

Splint’s intake, if not for his jaw, would have dropped right to the floor. The suite was one giant flat, completely open and with a stunning view of Iacon’s prized business district. The suns hovered on the edge of the city, glowing orange and blue and casting a warm, fleeting light that leaked into the flat and colored every surface. On either side of the suite was a bed and a polished, hand carved dresser. The walls were white and decorated with framed posters of Croon and other mechs, all shimmering under a limelight, bodies twisted into positions that highlighted their best features: round, swaying hips, seducing smiles, sultry optics. There was even furniture, white silky chairs and couches, glass coffee tables, cylindrical lamps, all resting atop giant red rugs. It was all breathtaking, and in stark contrast to the bland, undecorated walls of the mines. 

Croon pushed open the sliding glass doors that opened on the balcony, and he leaned against the railing. Splint’s pedes brushed against the red rugs as he moved closer, mesmerized by Croon’s beauty and the soft glow warming his lax features. In the door frame, he stopped, frozen in place by the coolant slipping down Croon’s perfectly smooth cheeks. He watched a tear slip down the other’s faceplates and disappear over the railing to sail to the ground. 

“Croon?”

It felt wrong to disrupt him, but Splint was used to seeing distressed mechs, and he knew it was more healthy to let it all out than to bury it. 

Croon wiped his cheeks and turned, leaning one hip against the railing, and smiled at Splint. “Sorry, I’m okay. Just happy.”

Splint’s brow furrowed as Croon sauntered back into the suite. Happy tears?

“That bed’s yours.” Croon motioned to the one underneath an image of searing blue optics. “I bet you’ve never felt anything as soft as that. Feels great to frag on.” He disappeared into the only closed room, the door clicking shut behind him. 

The balcony door was still open and a gentle breeze swirled in, carrying the bustling city sounds. Splint stood there for a moment, trapped in the doorway, optics shuttered, getting used to the low hum of engines and voices. It soothed him more than the clang of pickaxes against rock, but it didn’t quite beat the echoing thrum of metal connecting with raw energon, the elation that followed the pride. 

Splint went to his bed and placed a servo on the voluminous fabric that sank at his touch. He hummed to himself and moved to the dresser, not quite sure what he was supposed to put in it. On top the metal was a silver keycard and a datapad. Powering on the pad, Splint absentmindedly fiddled with the card, the refined metal slipping through his digits. 

The only datapads he had ever read were mining reports or mandatory new regulations passed down from his supervisors. There were simple words, bubonics more often, since literacy wasn’t too common underground. Splint was surprised when the datapad turned on in a few nano-clicks. It automatically opened to a document of rules and regulations, but they weren’t the rules he was used to. Subsection 23 of section 6, Interfacing: No interfacing in the hallways. 

Splint started with the first section and worked his way through the document, reading meticulously, sometimes having to sound out a word until he got it. Croon reappeared around Section 3 and immediately sank into his bed, moaning as he got comfortable. Splint returned the datapad to the desk, his desk, he reminded himself, and sat in a generously cushioned white and black striped chair. 

Croon, optics shuttered, asked, “Find anything good on there?”

Splint absentmindedly traced a digit along the red streaking his thigh. “There are a lot of rules.” He paused then added, “Odd rules.”

“Odd?” Croon propped himself up on his elbows and eyeballed Splint. “You mean all the stuff about fragging?” Splint nodded and he flopped back down. “Well, you better get used to ‘em, because your first shift starts tomorrow. For the first few cycles I requested that you shadow me.”

Splint’s tanks churned with anxiety. “Shadow you?”

“Yeah. So you learn the ropes. You won’t have to do anything, just watch.”

The suns had set and the wind was beginning to pick up, electricity snapping in the air, the brewings of a storm. Splint closed the balcony door and returned to his chair, watching as the storm rolled in, blanketing Iacon with a thick black fog. 

“Croon?”

“Mm, what?”

Splint shifted in his chair, valve twinging with a reminder of their meeting with Crion. It wasn’t that he was a prude, just inexperienced, and to dive helm first into a business that required experience… “I’m not sure I can do this.”

Croon snapped up, optics narrowing. “What do you mean you can’t?”

Frightened by the sudden sharpness of Croon’s tone and the set line of his lips, Splint curled in on himself. “Nevermind,” he whispered. 

Swinging his legs over the edge of bed, Croon’s expression softened. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap, it’s just that I want you to be happy.”

Splint, relieved by dissipated anger, tucked his legs against his chassis. “But, why? We just met today. You don’t even know me.”

Croon walked over and knelt in front of him. “Sure I do. You were stuck in those mines, but you’re out now, and we escaped together, so that ties us.” His digit snuck up Splint’s calf. “Besides, you don’t know what you’re doing in this new world, I can see it in your optics, how amazed you are by the smallest things, and I couldn’t just abandon you. You’re my responsibility now, okay?” When Splint didn’t respond, his optics still locked into space, Croon hooked a digit under his chin and lifted. “Do you want that, Splint? ‘Cause if you don’t, I might know somewhere else you can go.”

After all that, how could Splint say he wanted to leave? Although Croon was a stranger, Splint felt like he’d known him for the longest time, and his presence was warm and comforting, a rarity in Splint’s life. Maybe a change of character, just this one decision, would morph into something bigger, massive, out of control and terrifying. But, maybe it would be nothing. In the mines, choices and decisions were life or death: concise. 

Splint was so lost on the surface and drowning in possibilities. Possibilities he wouldn’t have considered in a million eons.

“I’ll stay.”


	4. Meet: Traction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traction is my baby boy ^~^

The second time Splint was at The Happy Mech, Croon introduced him to the bouncer, Bust. He was a sweet mech for someone so intimidating, and he even gave Splint instructions for setting up a direct communication line to him. Just in case, he’d said. 

They got there right before rush hour, which was just as the suns were setting. Croon bustled around, dragging Splint with him to a back room tucked away behind the curtained stage and next to Crion’s office. About twenty mechs were back there, some brushing on a touch of wax or filing their digits. Some had wide hips and broad shoulders, others were so small they made Croon look big. 

Croon stopped every five nano-clicks to talk to some new mech. Everyone was happy that he was back, and he was soaking up the attention. Splint was just glad that he wasn’t forgotten, and that Croon introduced him to everyone. It was another comfort to have Croon so close, brushing up against Splint and reminding him that he wasn’t alone. 

Once passed the throng of preparing mechs, Croon lead Splint through the maze of red and black chairs to a partially closed door. He nudged Splint. “Take a peak.”

Splint silently obeyed, and he stumbled back once he realized what he was seeing. The room was lined with couches, all filled with slouching mechs. All different sizes and colors and frames, the only thing any of them had in common was that their modesty panels were retracted. There were mechs stroking their impressive spikes and other mechs touching their valves. 

“W-what’s going on here,” Splint blubbered. 

Croon laughed, deep and gorgeous. “Getting ready. See,” he said as he opened the door and strut in, finding an empty spot for the two of them. “When we take a mech back to do our thing, it doesn’t look good if we aren’t ready for him. It looks like we don’t want ‘em.” He patted the seat for Splint to join him. 

Splint hesitantly sat down, squishing closer to Croon to avoid touching the yellow and red mech on his other side. Splint’s optics were drawn to the mech’s spike, and he resisted a sudden urge to touch it, to see if it would need two servos to wrap the whole way around it. The mech caught him staring and chuckled, giving his hips a little swivel so his impressive spike swayed in the air. 

The mech stuck out his servo. Splint, eager to make up for his rude behavior, shook it. 

“You gotta be new if you’re breathless already,” the stranger said. He grinned. “Name’s Gearlight. Good to meet you.”

Splint heard the definitive sound of panels opening, and he knew it was Croon. “Splint,” he said. 

Gearlight nodded. “Good name.” He looked Splint up and down before reaching a massive servo over and resting it on his thigh. “Need some help? Newbies usually do.” He chuckled, digits traveling lower.

Splint was about to respond when Croon smacked Gearlight’s servo away. “Hey, let him figure it out himself,” he snapped. At the roomful of quirked brows and halted moans, Croon added, “If he doesn’t start now, he’ll never learn.” 

 

Once they were all “fluffed up,” Croon and Splint went out to the dance floor where a number of mechs were already gathered, swirling and bouncing to the music. Splint shifted on his pedes, uncomfortable with the way his pressurized spike ground against his panel and his valve clenched on nothing. 

Croon shouted over the music that he was looking for one of the frequent customers, said that would be a good first lesson. When he found the mech he was looking for, a tall, broad shouldered one who was perched on a barstool, he sauntered over, dragging Splint with him. The mech was swirling his drink when they reached him, and his sharp blue optics flicked between them. Though his frame looked young, Splint caught the hint of age, and perhaps wisdom, glinting in his optics. 

Dancing a digit down the mech’s bicep, Croon leaned closer so his chassis rubbed against him. The mech finished the rest of his drink, clinking the glass onto the bar. He stood to his full height and allowed Croon to lace their digits, but he kept looking over his shoulder to see if Splint was following them or not. 

The Service Rooms broke off from the front of the building, where patterned carpeting replaced the tiled dancefloor, and soundproof rooms lined the walls on either side. Here the music was a low thrum that vibrated in Splint’s chest as he hummed along to the beat. Having reached a vacant room, Croon pushed through the door, hips swaying excessively, and the large mech cast a glance to Splint. Splint flushed and scurried into the room, closing and locking the door behind him. He stood there for a few minutes, watching as Croon situated the giant mech onto a vibrant red couch that lined the wall. It was the perfect size for the mech, who still hadn’t taken his optics off Splint. 

Although the room was full of different furniture, Splint chose the seat closest to the door and furthest from Croon and his customer. Croon wasn’t having any of that though. As he smoothly climbed onto the mysterious mech’s lap, he wiggled a digit at Splint. 

To the mech, he said, “This is our newest recruit. He’s just here to watch, so don’t you worry about him, baby.” His voice had dropped an octave or two and was so smooth and sultry, yet the mech didn’t seem to care. 

“I want him,” he rumbled. 

Croon was obviously biting back an impatient optic roll. “But, hon, he’s new—”

The mech practically lifted Croon off of him. “I will teach him anything he needs to know.” Now he was the one drawing Splint in, wrapping massive silver servos around his waist and letting his engine purr approvingly. 

Splint, his nerves getting the better of him, stumbled over his own pedes. “S-sir,” he yelped. “I—” The mech silenced him with a kiss, long and heated and passionate. When they parted, they were both panting and Splint’s fans whirred to life. 

Croon, scowling, glared more at Splint than at the mech. In an uncharacteristically high pitched voice, he said, “Enjoy yourself, and be sure to fill out a survey on your way out.” And then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him. 

Splint frowned, and so did his first customer. The big mech said, “I’ll have to tell Crion about this. He can’t be having mechs act like sparklings.” His brow was furrowed, but he relaxed when he pulled Splint closer.

Distracted by Croon’s mood flip, Splint didn’t even think to return the touches. Instead, he looked the mech dead in the optics, mustering all the courage he had in him. “Please,” he said. “Don’t report my friend, sir. This is his first day back and, and, I…” Courage depleted, Splint lowered his optics and whispered, “I’m sorry for acting like a sparkling, too.”  
Instead of scolding him, the mech just laughed, deep and throaty. Splint looked up, bewildered, and the mech caught him in another kiss. Still locked together, the mech rolled and pinned Splint against the back of the couch and the wall, his servos dipping lower and lower, playing with seams and flared plating. 

Any worry Splint had of Croon dissolved into the touches, and he arched back into the mech, his aft canting against searing hot plating. The mech continued to tweek soft spots around Splint’s groin as he broke off the kiss to trail his glossa down the red detailing on his neck. 

“You are so gorgeous,” the mech rumbled against Splint’s neck. His engine purred, content, when his panels slid aside. 

Splint flinched when he felt the blunt warm spike slide against his own panels, and it took all he had not to open up. This felt so much different than Crion, he realized, when the mech didn’t force him to open up so he could use him. There was no rushing, only soft, careful touches and a warm, throbbing spark pressed against his back. The spike was barely a blip in Splint’s attention. 

After a few more light touches, the mech nibbled on Splint’s shoulder. “Open for me,” he rasped, voice drawn taught from holding back.

Splint was all too glad to release his spike and give his clenching valve some air. Almost immediately, the mech slowly thrust his hips, his spike slipping through the drenched folds of Splint’s valve. Splint gasped and pressed back against the twitching spike, and the mech let out a hot burst of air, his fans cycling up a notch. He grasped Splint’s hips and held him in place.

“We’ve barely started, and you are already going to make me overload.” A giant servo reached down to wrap around Splint’s spike. “That’s not exactly fair, is it now?”

Splint arched, moaning as a thick digit toyed with the slit on his spike. “I-I’m sorry, sir,” he gasped.

The mech stopped moving. “Don’t apologize, own it.” His other servo slid to Splint’s valve. He pulled back his hips so that his spike nestled atop Splint’s aft, and teased a digit into him. “Mechs will go crazy for someone who can drag them over the edge so fast,” he whispered right into Splint’s audial. 

As he began to thrust his digit, the mech picked up where he was with Splint’s spike. When a second digit was slipped in, Splint groaned from the sting of the stretch, but he didn’t want to disappoint his first customer, so he shouldered through it. Crion’s spike had been thin, probably the size of one of this mech’s digits, and even that had been tight. And he wasn’t exactly used to his valve being used, since most of the mechs he interfaced in the mines wanted to be spiked. Without meaning too, Splint let out a sharp cry of pain when a third digit was added and the mech froze. He removed his digits and rolled Splint over so they were face to face. 

“Are you hurt?” The mech’s faceplates were contorted with concern, but his spike still stood to attention, hovering just above Splint’s valve.

Splint shook his helm as a fresh gush of something warm and stinging slipped from his valve. He assumed it was transfluid, but the mech hovering over him back up and checked.   
“Slag,” the mech cursed. His optics softened when he looked back up. “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He stood to his full height as Splint sat upright. “I’m okay, please sir,” he mumbled, not sure what else to say. 

The mech took him by the shoulders. “Rule number one of this place, of interfacing, is that you always tell someone to stop when you’re in pain. Has no one told you that?” He ran a servo down his face, and he kept glancing back down at Splint’s valve. “I will be right back,” he said, rushing out the door. 

Splint let his helm fall back onto the couch, the pain in his valve intensifying. Of all the ways his first day could have gone, he hadn’t expected this. He shuttered his optics and clenched his fists, waiting for that damned mech to come back. 

It had felt too good not to be ruined.


	5. Resolutions and Confusion

Although Splint couldn’t use his valve for a while, Crion said he could still work, just do simple things. So he did, although he didn’t get very many customers, and he was still shadowing under Croon. At the suite, they didn’t talk much, though it wasn’t hard to manage since Croon was always out. Picking up some extra work, he called it. 

So Splint was left to his own devices. He still wondered who payed for all of the medical care he received, since Crion said it wasn’t him. But, most of the time Splint pushed his own life to the side and threw himself into reading. He finished the rule book the day after his “incident” with that nameless mech, but he couldn’t understand or pronounce half of the words in his age level, so he was forced to read the texts of younger Bots. At least that kept him away from political papers. 

  
  


One night, after his shadowing shift, Splint decided to stick around the Happy Mech for a little while. Croon bolted without so much as a glance at him, and everyone else was either on the clock or heading home. Splint’s valve was just about healed, but it wasn’t about that. He was just lonely. Croon wasn’t talking to him, would hardly even look at him unless he was hanging off the spike of some stranger. And, even then, all Splint got were glares and an upturned nose. What happened to sticking together, being a responsibility? 

Splint huffed and slipped into the throng of Bots crowding the dancefloor. He never danced before, but he had a few drinks in him and lonely mechs do unexpected things. For the first time in forever, Splint let the music and the push and pull of the frames around him take control. He let loose, hips swaying and twirling, the music washing over him as a few mechs took the opportunity to grind up against his aft, some even getting as brave as to kiss him. 

And then a tiny red servo clasped Splint’s arm. He turned and Shift, the only femme on staff, was tugging him out of the warm, comforting wave of dancing Bots. 

“Hey,” she said, jutting a thumb towards the bar. “You got a friend. Said he just wants to talk.” She snorted and Splint thanked her. 

He didn’t have to take two steps to know who it was. If he were completely sober, he probably never would have gone up to him. 

Splint slipped into the barstool next to the mech, resting his chin on his servos. “I didn’t think you would ever come back.” His voice came out more sultry than intended. 

“Yeah, well.” The mech tapped his thick digits on the bar. “I wanted to apologize, properly. When is the end of your shift?”

Splint forgot how piercing his optics were, how deep and tempting his voice was. “I’m off now,” he said. “If you really want to talk…”

The mech nodded and stood, leading the way out the door and into the calm city streets. Once they were away from prying eyes, the mech stopped leading and fell into step next to Splint, but careful not to brush against him. Splint was anxious, but the easy gentleness in the mech’s field helped ease the phantom ache in his valve. Every glance he stole at the mech made something light up in his tanks. 

Splint wrung his servos. “If we’re going to be together outside of the bar, can I know your name?” He wasn’t about to add that, if they ever fragged again, he wanted to have something to cry out like Croon does with his customers. That always seemed to get a positive reaction.

The mech hummed, optics dancing over Splint’s frame before snapping back to the street. “Traction. And you?”

Splint bit his lip. He completely forgot that they were never introduced. “Splint. And,” he paused. “What do you do for a living?”

Traction chuckled, finally stopping at a much smaller building than Splint’s. “You aren’t too great at small talk, are you?” He unlocked the door and they lingered in the lobby, watching a few patrol Bots drive by. “You know…” He ran a servo over his helm. “I don’t usually do this, bring strangers home.”

“I don’t usually follow strangers home,” Splint countered. 

“Yes, well, I promise that I just want to talk.” Traction started up the stairwell on the far side of the lobby. “I would never risk harming you. Not again.”

There was a twange to his voice that made Splint hesitate. An idea formed in his processor. As they trecked up five flights of stairs he watched the way Traction made every precise step, careful and slow, meticulous. Part of him wondered why he was there, following this hulking silver mech like a lost piece of malware. To spite Croon? 

Splint shook his helm. 

“Traction, can I tell you something?”

Traction stopped on the landing, turning to extend his servo and help Splint up the last few creaky stairs. “Of course,” he said.

“I’m tired of being alone.”

The larger mech smiled, genuine, but his optics held a note of empathy, or maybe sympathy. “I am sorry that you ever had to feel that way, Splint. Perhaps we could learn to keep one another company.”

Splint smiled, spark thrumming. “I’d like that.”

  
  


When Splint got back to the suite early the next cycle, the last thing he was expecting to find was Croon awake and pacing. The second Splint stepped through the door, Croon was on him. 

“Where were you?” he shouted. “I was worried sick!”

Splint locked the door behind him and pushed past Croon, who followed right on his heel. “I was out.”

“Out where?” Croon persisted.

Splint tossed his keycard onto his dresser and whirled around. “All the spite, the glares, the tense silence, and all of a sudden you care about me? I’m sorry if I was confused about your standards!”

Croon froze, optics cycling wide. He hung his helm and Splint continued.

“We are complete strangers, Croon! That’s one thing to deal with, but then my first night working you flip out and decide you hate me? And for what!” Splint marched to the door. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Croon, but whatever it is, it must  _ only  _ be to hurt you!” 

He left Croon there, optics brimming with coolant, servos shaking, and took the elevator to the roof. Anywhere to get some fresh air. 

There was nothing spectacular up there, just so much space. Splint walked right up to the edge and stared down. He knew their suite was on the top floor, but he hadn’t expected to see Croon out on the balcony, staring into nothing, shoulders trembling. The sight of the poor mech sent a pit straight to the bottom of Splint’s tank. 


	6. Forgiveness

After the fight, the tension was only worse in the suite. Splint stopped shadowing Croon, but he was working less and less and spending more and more time with Traction. He wanted to talk to Croon, but he was sober and emotionally raw. All of his years as a miner prepared him for a cold life of rocks and energon, blank faces and nameless, power-abusing mechs. Not this. 

It seemed like Traction was waiting for Splint after every shift, always on the end of the bar, swirling some cocktail that he said made his systems buzz. Splint was grateful for the distraction, especially that night. Earlier, Crion had pulled him aside and said he needed to take a break, that his ratings weren’t too hot and he was losing customers. He looked disappointed.  _ Family my aft _ , Splint had thought.

When they got to Traction’s apartment, Splint flopped down on the ratted old couch. Traction sat opposite him on a metal bench. 

“Splint, what’s wrong?” he asked. “Lately you have been getting less and less… happy.” 

Splint’s mind was too fried from exhaustion to come up with an excuse. He always thought he was a moderately capable mech in the mines. But now an argument had him down and almost out of a job. Before he knew it, he was spewing everything onto the carpet for Traction to digest and pick at. 

When he was done, he muttered, “Is there something wrong with me, Traction?” He propped himself up on the couch. “You know, my entire life used to be in the mines. It was all so simple: pickaxe, energon, rock. But, up here…”

Traction raised a servo to stop him, his optics suddenly as serious as when he tore Splint’s valve lining. “Don’t you dare say that you would rather be there than here.” He moved over and squeezed onto the couch next to Splint. “Listen to me, I know what it feels like to be trapped. Trapped in a situation, a state of mind, anything. And, you know what, I’m still there. Trapped.” 

He dipped his helm to brush a kiss against Splint’s jaw. “Until I found you, I didn’t know what it was like to breathe. Everything I did was tense and forced. I tried to find escapes.” He paused, pulled back. “You asked me what my job was, a little while ago.”

Splint nodded, although he was uncomfortable with a mech telling him so much. In the mines, nobody spoke, they had no lives  _ to  _ speak about. But here, Traction was pouring his all out for Splint. 

Traction cycled in, slow. “I am a gladiator.”

Reeling, Splint scoffed. “You’re too gentle.” He’d heard about the gladiators, how they fought to the death just to appease a crowd. There was no way Traction could be one.

“Fighting is one of my escapes. I only do a few battles, and they’re small, against convicted criminals or organics,” Traction said. “But I don’t…”

Splint stood. “You’re killing them?”

His hung helm was enough of an answer. Splint wanted to run away, to hide somewhere that wasn’t his suite and wasn’t here. But he didn’t want to ruin the relationship he was forging with Traction. It was too important, a key in what little happiness he owned. Slowly, gratingly so, he lowered himself back onto the couch. Traction didn’t try to touch him again. 

The apartment radiated unspoken words. 

Traction quietly said, “I understand if you wish to leave and never contact me again.” His pede shifted ever so slightly against the tile. 

“I don’t want to leave.” Splint moved closer, wrapping an arm around Traction’s. “If… if that’s what keeps you sane, then I’m not going to force you to stop. Besides, we aren’t close enough for that.”

Traction pulled Splint into his lap. “Are we close enough now?” he asked, nuzzling his helm into the crook of Splint’s neck. “I don’t want to know what it is like, living without you,” he rumbled.

Splint shivered as Traction’s servos traced circles on his back. “How long have we known each other?”

“Not long enough.”

Traction chuckled, massive servos holding Splint still as he attempted to grind down on hot plating. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, suddenly solemn. “I promise, I—”

Splint cut him off with a bite to the lips. “Stop,” he purred, licking away the bead of energon that seeped from the wound. “If I didn’t want this,  _ you _ , I wouldn’t be here.”

Traction nuzzled his helm in the crook of Splint’s neck, sucking and nibbling. His servos slid to cup Splint’s aft, then slid lower so that they were spreading his thighs. Splint hummed, working up a comfortable charge. It amazed him how Traction’s servos inspired the wetness in his valve and the throb of his spike. 

As Traction tweeked seams and massaged the soft spots of Splint’s inner thigh, Splint dipped his servos to toy with the larger mech’s vanity plating. Traction’s breath hitched when a digit found its way under a tight bunch of wires. His field wrapped around Splint, warm and soothing, no less thrilling than the first time they met. Splint reveled in it, shuttering his optics and getting lost in the careful, hesitant touches. He’d never been held like that, tucked against someone’s chassis, warm and safe. 

In one swift motion, Traction lifted Splint and set him on the couch, legs spread, and he knelt before the smaller mech. Splint laughed, digits reaching to graze Traction’s unrelenting jawline. The world seemed to freeze in place, and they were caught in each others optics, their own world, their own fantasies. 

Freedom. 

And then Traction ducked his helm and started licking the joints connecting Splint’s thigh and pelvis. Splint through his helm back as his panels snicked open. One servo splayed over a thigh, Traction offered his other to Splint. At first, Splint wasn’t sure what Traction wanted. But the allure of those digits engulfing his was too overwhelming and he intwined their servos; one more connection to sink into.  

Traction’s glossa was quick to lap up the fluids Splint released, and even happier it seemed to keep going when they kept flowing. Splint squirmed under him, grip on his servo tightening as his charge grew. 

Splint was allured by the way Traction worked on him, never breaking eye contact as his glossa flicked Splint’s throbbing nodes. Such a massive, fearsome mech bending before him… the thought made Splint’s valve quiver and his spark flutter. Just as he was about to overload, Traction pulled away and he whined. 

Traction left a sloppy trail of transfluid up Splint’s thigh, over his hip, and finally those thick, pursed lips closed around the head of his spike. 

“Ah—” he gasped. “W-what are you doing?”

Traction grinned around him. He answered, but Splint couldn’t tell what he said. And then a digit was slipping into him, past the wet folds and lax lining, going two knuckles deep. Splint bit his lip to contain a moan and a sudden wave of nausea. 

Traction took a moment to pause. He watched Splint with the purest optics, the most sincere expression defining his masculine features. “How do you feel?”

Splint covered his face with his free servo. “Good, real good,” he whispered. 

Traction wasn’t buying it. He removed his digit and crouched in front of Splint, squeezing his servo. “Do you not trust me with the truth?”

Valve cycling down on nothing, Splint sighed. “I… I’m scared.”

Sinking into the couch, Traction shook his helm. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” He covered their entwined servos with his free one. 

“It felt good, and I wasn’t thinking about it,” Splint blubbered. “But…”

Traction nodded. “Do you want to stop?”

Splint chewed his bottom lip, thinking. He was worked up, and the longer they talked, the less his tanks churned. “No,” he admitted. He wiggled his hips, trying to work up the courage to keep going. “Just… please be careful.”

Traction dipped his helm to kiss Splint’s forehelm. “Of course. If you feel anything that’s not good, tell me to stop.” He grabbed Splint’s chin and forced him to look at him. “I’m serious. Hit me if you can’t speak, anything. I’m a big mech, I can control myself.”

All the reassuring and soft touches had Splint melting against Traction’s side. 

“Tell me you understand,” Traction demanded. 

Splint blinked. “I understand.” Before the last sylables left his mouth, he was lowered to the couch and careful, giant servos curled at the nape of his neck and the dip of his back. His fans kicked back on as the one at his back slipped around to massage his exterior node. 

As his servos worked, Traction kissed a trail down Splint’s chassis, ending just above the concave of his pelvis. His optics latched onto Splint’s. 

“I’m going to use one digit. Is that okay?” he asked, a lustrous purr to his already rolling voice. 

Splint hummed a yes, no longer worried about what might come next. His valve clenched around the digit as it was slowly pushed inside. It curled around sensitive nodes, grazing the walls as it was slowly, ever so slowly, dragged in and out until Splint was begging for more, canting his hips against that lonesome digit.

Traction’s mouth was latched to the small space between Splint’s spike and valve, suckling and tickling the base of the mostly flaccid spike. Nevertheless, Traction paused and they locked optics again. 

“I think you can handle more. Do you wan—”

“Slag yes,” Splint grunted. “I… I trust you, Traction, and I need more.” 

Traction licked a sloppy line up the belly of his spike and he shivered as his length twitched to life. The second digit wasn’t much of a stretch. It fit snugly with the first and managed to hit twice as many nodes. Splint moaned, canting his hips against Traction’s servo, lost in the bliss. 

Working Splint’s red ribbed spike, Traction whispered sweet nothings. “You’re so gorgeous, that’s it, good, can you feel that?”

Splint nodded vigorously. “D-do you think that’s —ah— the size of an average spike?” he asked inbetween gnawing on the inside of his cheek.  

Traction chuckled. “Just abouts.” He spread his digits and the transfluids that dribbled out made Splint gasp. “I’m going to put another in. It might sting a bit. Just tell me to stop if it hurts.”

Splint smiled, resting his helm on the arm of the couch. How gentle and careful could such a massive, intimidating mech really be? It was endearing, made Splint feel like he was something special, not just a valve on a stick. He’d never been touched like that before, and he wanted more. So much more. With Traction, it felt like he could float away at any second. Lost in his peace, Splint barely felt the stretch from the third, let alone fourth digits. He was vaguely aware that he’d overloaded and was moaning, and that Traction was licking his valve clean. 

He wondered, propping himself up on his elbows, if Traction felt the same way he did. Maybe it was just their entangled fields, or the fumes fogging up the apartment, but everything felt so raw and perfect. 

“Splint? Splint, talk to me.” Traction shook his shoulders and he snapped back to reality. 

“Sorry.”

Traction dragged a servo down his face. “Primus you scared me. I went down and came back up and… I’ve never seen a mech so out of it. Are you okay?”

Splint’s valve cycled down on nothing. “You pulled out?”

Traction scoffed. “Of course I did! You weren’t responding!”

“Oh.” Splint eyed Traction’s closed panels. Was he not getting anything from this? 

Traction followed his gaze and blushed, energon tinting his cheeks an oddly adorable blue. “So you’re okay?”

Splint nodded. “I was just thinking about how all this feels.” He reached between them to stroke Traction’s modesty plating. 

The larger mech ground his dentae together. “Then…”

“Do you think I’m ready?”

The answer came in the form of retracting panels and a monstrous spike. There was nothing flashy to it, but Splint was used to plain silver spikes. It was already so hard and transfluid was smeared on the tip, as if it had been rubbing against its housing. 

Traction pulled Splint into a kiss. The kind of kiss that leaves no question of what’s coming next. Splint arched his back to rub his spike against Tractions, and the hulking mech’s fans kicked into overdrive. He bucked his hips, rubbing his spike through the slick of Splint’s valve. Both gasped, writhing for more. 

Splint looped his arms around Traction’s neck and yanked him down into another kiss. When they separated, Traction used one servo to hold himself in place, and lined up with the dripping valve in front of him. Splint tried to move his hips and hurry him up, but Traction used his free servo to hold him down. 

They locked optics as Traction pushed through the folds of Splint’s valve. Splint bit his lip to hold back a groan. Even though he was soaked, and Traction had stretched him, it was still a tight fit. Traction was already panting above him, shoulders shaking.

“Are you okay?” he gasped. 

Splint forced himself to keep his optics online, to keep watching Traction. “Just, move.”

Traction inched forward at a painstakingly slow pace, pausing every few moments to make sure the stretch wasn’t too much and that Splint wasn’t in agonizing pain. It felt like forever until the head bumped against the back of Splint’s valve, triggering a spasm from his interior node. 

Splint rested a servo over his pelvis, the bump from Traction’s spike a comforting little lump. He smiled up at Traction, who was still shaking. He felt incredibly full, his valve aching for friction, and the amount of care Traction was taking… Just thinking about it made Splint moan. 

“P-Primus,” Traction huffed. “How do you f-feel?”

Carefully, Splint lifted his legs and wrapped them around Traction’s waist, never breaking optic contact. “Good. You?”

With a grin and the slightest thrust forward, Traction purred, “Amazing. But I’m more worried about you.”

Splint writhed, trying to move his hips, to get something, but he needed Traction. That spike of his pressed incessantly at the back of his valve, and he needed more. “Please,” he whined.

Traction assaulted his neck with sloppy, sensual kisses as he slowly pulled out and pushed back in, lighting up Splint’s valve. He moaned and writhed, and gradually Traction started to let go. Although definitely not pounding into him, Traction set a steady pace. Out, in. Out, in.

Splint arched his back and Traction hit a different set of nodes, making him cry out with warm, sticky bliss. The cycling of his valve encouraged Traction to go just a tad bit faster. An electric knot was flaring in Splint’s gut, and he overloaded when Traction surged back into him, clenching and trapping his massive spike as they both overloaded. 

Splint clutched tight to Traction and cried his name.

There was barely enough room in Splint’s valve to allow for all the transfluid spurting out of Traction’s still hard spike and it seeped out around his girth. Traction reached between them to give a few careful rubs to Splint’s swollen exterior node, and his hips bucked, forcing Traction’s spike deeper. Splint moaned and Traction pulled out once he was relaxed enough. His spike was still erect, but Splint felt too tired to worry about it. 

Splint melted into the couch cushions, exhausted. Traction pulled him against his chassis and lay down, both of their panels still out and fluids leaking into the soft fabric. 

“Shouldn’t we clean this?” Splint murmured, but Traction just shrugged. He was already half asleep.

Sprawled out on top of the couch and each other, Traction’s left arm and leg dangled over the side and Splint was wedged between him and the cushions. Splint traced circles on Traction’s chassis, gentle enough to not wake him. He smiled to himself, bliss overwhelming him and pouring out of his field.

How long  _ had  _ they known each other? The question didn’t seem to matter anymore. They were happy, and happiness has its own sense of time. Blanketed by the warmth Traction emitted, Splint rested his arm over Traction’s chassis and slipped into recharge, for the first time in a long time, relaxed. 


	7. Finally Relaxing

Someone was knocking on the door. Banging, more like it. Splint shot up, terrified that he was back in the mines and he’d slept past role call. Except, he never woke up with a warm servo wrapping around his waist, smoothing his flared plating. Traction fixed Splint with a concerned, twisted look, and he was about to speak when the banging came again. He frowned as Splint slid off him and went to the bathroom. 

Splint left the door open so he could hear what was going on. He pretended to run a bath, which he’d only recently learned how to do, and sat on the lip of the basin. 

The door creaked as it opened, and a breathy, nasal voice boomed, “Tracey! Where yuh been yuh big lug?”

Traction didn’t sound nearly as excited. “I’m off for the day. I told you yesterday.”

“No yuh didn’t, you were too distracted by that ‘lil toy of yours.”

“I told you,” Traction rumbled. “I care about him.”

“Suuure yuh do. That’s what they all say. Whatever, let’s hang, man!”

Water sloshed over the side of the tub, but Splint just watched it pool around his pedes. It kept coming and coming, but he didn’t care. Part of him wanted to march out and prove the disembodied voice wrong, but what proof did he have? That he and Traction ‘faced? That they met in a wetware club?

“It’s time for you to go, Skeeve.” The door closed with a slam, muting the mech’s protest. 

Traction appeared in the doorframe, his optics weary and dull. He said nothing as he stepped around Splint to turn off the water. Silence hung over them, but Splint couldn’t find the words for what he was feeling, so he let his field flicker out experimentally. It graced Traction’s, which was curled tight against him, and the mech sank to his knees, ignoring the spilled water. He found Splint’s servos and covered them with his. 

“Don’t listen to him,” Traction whispered. “He’s just bitter.”

Splint stared at the mound of servos on his lap until he could swallow the lump in his throat. “I feel like a sparkling, trying to figure out a whole new world.” He paused. “You were the first Bot who hurt me, maybe that’s why I latched onto you…”

Traction’s face fell. “I never meant to—”

“I know.”

“Then what’s this about? Is it because of the gladiat—”

“No.” Splint shuttered his optics. “I’m used to pain, it’s not your fault. The mi—We met in a whorehouse, that’s nothing special. The only reason I’m here now is because you wanted more.”

Traction scoffed and hooked a digit under Splint’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. It was intense and fiery. “Listen to me, if all I wanted was a quick frag, I’d be back at that bar, not here. Not with you. You don’t belong in a place like The Happy Mech. You’re better than that, you just don’t know it yet.” His grip on Splint’s servos tightened when he didn’t respond. “Don’t you believe in me?” He wiggled his optic ridges and Splint couldn’t help the grin that turned the corners of his mouth. 

“Listen.” Traction stood, pulling Splint up with him. “I’ve got the day off, just for us. We can get cleaned up, then how about heading out?”

Splint knew he had the day too, since Crion wasn’t exactly happy with him, and he didn’t want to go back to the apartment. With or without Croon there, the place felt empty and eery, even more than the mines. 

Traction stepped around him and swung a massive leg over the edge, plunging it into the water. The tub was just barely big enough for him to fit comfortably in, and so much water sloshed over the edge. Splint hesitated. He could just leave, avoid the complications of a budding relationship. He slipped into the water and situated himself between Traction’s legs, back against chassis.

Traction sighed and sagged against the back of the tub. “Don’t mind my spike,” he mumbled. “Still sticky from last night.”

Splint shifted when he noticed the persistent pushing of that massive spike against his back. He sloshed to the other side of the tub and opened his own panels as Traction poured bath salts into the water. Using wire brushes and soft, white towels, they scrubbed themselves clean.

They were standing, waiting for the water to drain, before either broke the silence. Splint was surprised by himself when he asked what they’d be doing for the day. Traction grinned and shrugged, coy. 

Dried and sparkling, they took to the streets. Splint was more than happy to let Traction keep a protective, if not threatening, arm around his waist. It pulled them closer, and Splint could smell the flowery soap they’d used earlier. 

They walked like that for a while, perusing the classy streets of Iacon. They ended up at an open-air market, and Splint had to pause to take it all in. Traction chuckled at his awe, massive arm coiling a bit more around Splint’s waist. 

There were stands for everything, it seemed. Expensive, home-brewed highgrade, armor upgrades, crystal shops, books, you name it. All of the colors were bright and vivid, bouncing off the frames of the crowd. In the center of the plaza was an enormous fountain, and Splint subconsciously moved towards it, mesmerized by the way the suns’ rays caught the water streaming from Primus’ statue mouth, and cast miniature rainbows upon the concrete. Basking in the spots of color was a mech about half Splint’s size, juggling crystals that had been molded and carved into perfect balls of purple and red and white. 

Splint didn’t realize the juggling mech was talking until he shouted, “Hey, buddy!”

Traction was back by his side in a flash. Splint hadn’t even realized he’d left. One servo hidden behind his back, Traction shot the stranger a glare and nudged Splint to the other side of the fountain. It seemed like there were more mechs on this side than the juggler’s. 

“Why aren’t more people watching the juggler?” Splint wondered aloud. 

Traction sat them down on the lip of the fountain, where the spray from Primus couldn’t reach them. He shrugged, but was grinning profusely, taking in every wide-eyed reaction and curious stare from Splint. “Juggling isn’t anything special,” he said. 

Splint’s helm tilted. “Really? It looked hard.”

Traction held up his servo and disappeared for not even five nano-clicks. When he returned, he was proudly holding three empty cubes. Splint leaned closer, smiling. Traction tossed the cubes into the air one at a time, one right after the other, and one after the other they shattered on the ground. 

They stared at the shards. “I was wrong,” Traction chuckled. 

The juggler, coming around the fountain, shouted, “Hey, yer scarin’ away mah crowd!”

“What crowd?” Traction snarked. When the juggler made to lunge, Traction grabbed Splint and pulled him out of the market, one servo still hidden behind his back.

When they stopped running, Splint tried to hold back his laughter, but it felt good to let it all out. He didn’t care about the stares or the ache in his sides. As Traction sweeped up the cube pieces, he kept on laughing, a blurting, wheezing sound he wasn’t sure he’d ever made before. 

Traction laughed too, and his arms snaked around Splint, pulling him as close as possible. Splint got a hold of himself and stared up into those gorgeous crinkled optics.

“Where to next?” he asked.

Traction grinned. “How about a play?”

“A play?”

“Yeah, why not?” He leaned down and brushed their lips together. “I hear there’s one on romance playing at the same time as a Primus versus Unicron reenactment. Which do you want to see?”

Splint had no idea what a play even was, yet he was supposed to choose? The arts weren’t exactly a popular conversation starter in the mines. Splint knew about Cybertron’s mythology, but he knew essentially nothing about romance. Whenever he thought about what happened at The Happy Mech, romantic just didn’t fit. 

“What, uh…” Splint glanced away from Traction, a blush creeping to his faceplates. Suddenly his touch felt too hot, like his servos were melting through Splint’s hips. “What is romance?”

Traction bit back a laugh. “You live under a rock?” Traction frowned for a fleeting moment, probably having realized his slip too late.

Splint shook his helm. “I just… No one has ever taught me.”

“This is,” Traction said.

“This is romance?” Splint asked, a mysterious flurry starting in his tanks. Meeting in a whorehouse, albeit a fancy one, tearing a valve, paying for treatment and interfacing to make up for it, bathing together, running around Iacon together, breaking things and laughing together; that was romance?

As if reading his mind, Traction rumbled, “Yes.” He caught Splint in a gentle kiss. “That feeling in your tanks, that joy, that’s what romance is. Oh, and doing things for one another.” He pulled back just enough to bring up his closed servo. When he opened it, there was a tiny brown packet with an image of a blueish-green crystal stamped on the front. 

Splint stared. “What is this? How can a crystal be in a tiny flat package?” he asked. 

Traction chuckled. “You have to grow it. Just add water to the powder, and you got yourself a crystal.”

In the mines, it took centuries for new ore lines and crystals to grow, that is, if they weren’t stripped. Was he supposed to wait that long for a tiny packet to grow? Splint never really thought about where the energon crystals all came from. Had someone dumped this powder into the earth and then the rain seeded it?

“Splint?”

He snapped out of his thoughts and met Traction’s inquisitive gaze. “Yes?”

“Do you like it?” 

How could such a massive mech seem so delicate in one simple moment? Traction peered into Splint’s optics with a borderline innocent eagerness. Splint never would have guessed him for a gladiator. 

Splint draped his arms around Traction’s neck and pulled him down into a kiss that had their lips crashing together. When they parted, he whispered, “I love it. Thank you, Traction.”

Traction nuzzled their helms together. “You know what, I have a better idea than a play. Let’s take a trip.”

Splint smiled. So many surprises. Romance was fun. “To where?”

“Praxus.”


	8. Awe in Crystal Garden

Praxus, it turned out, was even more awe worthy than Iacon. Splint let Traction whisk him down crowded streets, weaving through clusters of lackluster mechs. Everyone, it seemed, was talking about quantum generators and physics, whatever any of those words meant. Splint smiled, for once not caring that he was left in the dark. With his servo entwined with Traction’s, their legs pumping as they all but jogged, he felt at peace. At least, what he imagined peace would feel like. It wasn’t like the numbness of the hollow ache that marred his existence in the mines. No, he felt the burn and the passion and the stretch of a smile on his face, the suns beating down on him and making his plating shimmer. 

“This is wonderful,” Splint gasped. 

Traction paused and stared at him a moment. He grinned, a curious spark to his optics. He kept walking, slower now, his massive servo squeezing Splint’s and pulling him closer. They passed a cluster of sparklings tossing around a metal ball, and Splint couldn’t help but wonder what it was like to be that young. He knew he, just as every mech, had started off a sparkling: it was only logical. Yet, he had no recollection of anything from before the mines. What he thought he remembered was pieced together from other mech’s stories, about waking up in a medbay, being nurtured with all the other forged and eventually getting shipped to the mines. He wondered, sometimes, if he ever had friends, if he had a mentor, if there was something wrong with him. Why had he been thrown to the mines? Or did he volunteer?

Splint struggled to shove all of those recurring thoughts to the back of his mind, but Traction was much better at that. Just one touch from him, and Splint found the strength to ignore himself. 

They had stopped moving, and Traction’s arm was coiled around Splint’s waist, pressing their sides together. “Welcome,” he rumbled. “To the Helix Gardens.”

An immense, refined marble archway marked the beginning of the gardens, and just past it the crystals began. They rose from the ground in spectacles of blue, draped the sky, suspended by nothing, hovering and sparkling. A low hum emanated from them, draping Splint in a warm, comforting calm. It was as if they were singing to him, and just him, calling out to him and touching him, running their servos down his body, soothing his joints, washing away his anxiety and painful memories. 

Splint followed the sound, the whipsy chorus in his audials, to the center of the garden where benches circled one giant, looming crystal. The voices were strongest there, and Splint walked right up to the gorgeous, sparkling pillar of spiralling and jagged crystals. He wasn’t aware that Traction was next to him, or that he was crying. 

He reached out to touch the mother crystal, tingling electricity pulsing through him as his digits grazed the surface. “It’s so gorgeous,” he whispered.

Traction hummed a response and pulled him over to a bench, where they sat together, thighs brushing, digits entwined. 

“The crystals can be overwhelming the first time,” Traction said as he brushed a thumb over Splint’s cheeks, drying his tears. “Can you hear me?” 

Splint nodded, adding a smile for good measure. He felt so light, like he was floating in among the cascading crystals, glimmering and singing. He leaned against Traction and shuttered his optics, basking in the glow and sound of the garden. 

Traction’s servo caressed Splint’s side lovingly. “I thought you’d like it here,” he said. “We can stay as long as you like.”

Splint smiled. “Thank you, Traction.”

A comfortable silence fell between the two and they stayed just like that, leaning into one another, touching and thinking, cycling in the fresh air, humming to the tune of the crystals until the suns went down.

Traction shifted. “How do you feel?” he asked, his voice a low and husky purr. 

“Happy,” Splint said. If not for the suns, he wouldn’t’ve known how long they’d been sitting. But even the ache in his joints couldn’t dampen the blanket of peace draped over his shoulders. “Very happy.”

Traction leaned over to place a gentle kiss atop Splint’s helm. “Good.” He stretched his legs. “I was thinking, about you and everything you’ve gone through, and…”

Splint searched the larger mech’s shimmering optics. Was it romantic to think about someone when they’re right next to you?

“And,” Traction continued, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t want to ever make you uncomfortable. I want you to feel safe when you are with me. Do you feel that?” His optics flickered with doubt before Splint pulled him down into a proper kiss. 

Splint prayed that Traction thought that was an answer. He was stalling, and he knew it, but that was about all he could really understand at the moment. A part of him still doubted that Traction didn’t just want someone to frag, and that tiny inkling was all Splint needed to remain indecisive. 

When he was around Traction he thought he felt safe, at least he didn’t feel threatened, but they barely knew each other. Splint was no master of relationships, but he knew they could be dangerous, deceiving.


	9. Maccadam's Bar

After Praxus, Traction wheeled Splint to Maccadam’s Oil House. Splint was grateful for the bubbling drinks served to them, and he sipped while Traction talked to a round, wide eyed mech. The lights were dimmed just enough so that Splint could make out the other patrons’ expressions: lidded optics, lopsided smiles, sultry grins. The music had no words, was just an endless stream of notes that bunched together and formed something of a jazzy beat. There wasn’t a dancefloor, but two femmes twirled in the corner, both backs to him. There were booths on either side of the bar, and those were just as packed as the bar, which had no empty stools left. Drinks were handled with care, and the place was impressively clean. 

Splint stared down at his drink, watching the bubbles detach from the sides of the glass and rise to the surface where they lingered until popping. It was odd, and sweet, but he didn’t like it. It was too sweet, made his jaw lock up. He wasn’t used to such fancy highgrade. Hell, he wasn’t used to anything he’d been doing the past few cycles. 

Someone whistled from across the bar, and Splint glanced up to find Traction waving for him. Leaving his drink on the table, Splint slid out of the booth and walked over. Traction was still talking to the orange bartender. 

“Splint,” Traction said, snaking an arm around his waist. “This is Maccadam. Greatest bartender in all the galaxy!”

Maccadam grinned, but Splint felt like the mech was looking right through him, into his core. Into the secrets, the lies, the fear. 

“Nice tuh meet yuh,” the mech said. 

Splint forced a smile. “Likewise.”

Maccadam turned around and started grabbing bottles off the shelves behind him. “So,” he said. “Need something stronger?”

Splint froze. “How did you know that?”

He turned and poured a clear blue liquid into a stout glass. “You left your last drink at the booth.” 

Splint relaxed a notch. There was still something off about the Bot. He accepted the drink that was slid to him, sipped warily. It had a kick, but soothed his nerves and was perfectly bitter. 

Maccadam leaned on the counter, ignoring a mech calling for another round. His optics boar into Splint’s, squinted and sympathetic. “He'll be back.” He blinked and whisked away to serve the mech on the other end of the bar.

Splint stared after him, drink lifted half way to his mouth. As far as he knew, he’d never met this mech in his life, but that was very clearly a warning, or maybe a hint. 

Traction laughed and tipped back the last of his own drink. “Don’t listen to Macc, he’s a tad off his rocker,” he said. 

Splint nodded but his tanks didn’t stop churning, even after they left, buzzed and tipsy. They walked the city, passing other couples, soaking in the warmth of each others’ presence, but Traction seemed bothered by the silence. Of course, the city itself wasn’t quiet, it never stopped moving: patrol officers, speedsters, laughing and boystering parties of young mechs. 

“You should stay with me for the night,” Traction started.

There was so much Splint knew he needed to work out. His feelings, his job, his relationship with Croon, and none of that could be resolved if he stuck to Traction’s side all cycle. 

“I should go home,” he said.

Traction didn’t respond, and the silence morphed into something dangerous, teetering on the edge of an invisible cliff. 

“Today was fun,” Splint offered. They turned down the street that would lead to his building. “I loved it. Being with you.”

Traction smiled, but it didn’t reach his optics, and Splint felt a pit sink in his tanks. They were in front of his building now, and part of him wanted to flee, to push past the tinted doors and run into the elevator, go to the roof and hide. But he couldn’t, not when Traction was pulling him into a kiss, holding tight to his hips. 

The kiss was brusque, stiff like Traction didn’t want to be touching him, or maybe it was Splint who made the kiss seem stiff. Maybe it was him who wasn’t reciprocating. Either way, it was awkward, and that pit in Splint’s gut was growing, making him burn up. 

Traction finally pulled away, but his servos still held fast to the curve of Splint’s waist. “Good night,” he said.

Splint couldn’t bring himself to meet Traction’s gaze. There was too much behind those mesmerizing optics: the longing, the grief, of a confident mech trying to understand a wary partner. 

“Good night,” Splint said. He slipped out of Traction’s grasp, trying not to run, and retreated into his building. His pace didn’t slow as he crossed the threshold, headed for the elevator.

No one in the lobby seemed to pay him much attention, but when he got into the elevator, there was a royal blue, narrow-faced mech tsked at him. That frame looked familiar, but Splint didn’t bother trying to place it. 

“Hey,” the mech said. His voice was high and smooth, and there was a lilt to it, some sort of accent that made it even prettier. “What’s wrong with you, hon?”

Splint punched the number for his floor, one higher than an already glowing button. “Nothing.” The mech could have been the most gorgeous Bot on the planet, but Splint wouldn’t’ve considered doing anything with him. Not until the mech pinned him against the elevator wall. Splint couldn’t tell if the contact was threatening or sexual.

“I know a stressed Bot when I see one, kid,” they said. “That doesn’t mean you have to be a dick about it.”

His frame may have been polished and primmed, but under all the fancy plating, Splint was still hardened from centuries in the mines. Needlessly to say, he made easy work of shoving the mech off him. The mech slammed against the other side of the metal bin and cursed. 

Splint stepped forward. “Slag, I’m sorry!” The mech shot him a glare and he froze. “I swear, I didn’t mean to—”

“Primus, you’re strong,” the mech grumbled, righting himself, rubbing his elbow. 

Splint rubbed the back of his helm, optics downcast. “Listen, I really am sorry.”

The mech shrugged. “It’s fine. I don’t mind being thrown around every once in a while. Name’s Doll, by the way.”

Royal blue mech, pressed flush against an open window. 

Splint flushed. “I’m—”

Doll grinned. “Splint. Trust me, everybot in this place knows who you are. Kinda hard to miss those curves.” The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Doll didn’t move. 

Shifting back and forth on his pedes, Splint stared straight ahead, waiting for the elevator to close and keep moving. If Doll didn’t get off here, he’d probably try and follow Splint back to his room. When the doors started to close, Splint stuck his servo out to trip the motion sensors and keep them open. He placed a servo on the small of Doll’s back, grinning, and pushed him out of the elevator. 

“What the—”

Splint hit the manual switch to close the doors.


	10. Old Faces

The lights were off when Splint opened the door, but the balcony curtains were pulled back and the city lights filtered in a soft glow. Croon was curled up on his berth, snoring softly. Splint closed and locked the door and tiptoed to his berth. He sat on the edge, watching Croon’s side rise and fall with each steady inhale. From the compartment in his arm, he pulled the blue packet Traction had given him, and set it on his drawer. 

“Croon?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. No response: perfect. “I am sorry. I’m sorry that I ruined your first night back. I’m sorry I yelled at you, I didn’t mean it. I just, I guess I thought that, of all mechs, you would be the one to understand me. I want to be more than angry strangers, Croon.”

“I want that, too.”

Splint froze. “You were awake.”

Croon rolled over, optics opening. “Yeah. I was… I was waiting for you to get back.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He swung his legs over the edge of his berth. “You know, none of this is your fault, right? I was just being a brat. I was jealous that you snagged a client before I cou—”

Splint chuckled dryly. “Well, you saw how that ended.”

“Yeah. But, I mean, he paid for your treatment, and he’s the one you’ve been staying out with, right?”

“How did you know?” Splint asked. 

Croon shrugged. “He’s a nice mech, and you haven’t been working as hard lately. Crion said he had to give you a break.”

Of course Crion would spew his business. “I am going back tomorrow.” Splint wasn’t sure when he decided that, but it was out, and he wasn’t going to take it back. He couldn’t imagine what would happen to him if he stopped anyway. He’d probably get kicked out of the apartment and start living on the streets. 

Croon layed back down. “Good, ‘cause Crion’s not happy.”

 

Bust smiled when he saw Splint coming down the street. “How yuh been, pal?” he asked. 

Splint smiled back, struggling to keep up the act. “Good. Ready to get back to work.” As he passed, Bust slapped his aft. 

“I bet you are,” he rumbled. 

Splint was there a good joor or so before the doors opened to the public, and the few mechs in the lobby, mostly guards, stared. Splint held his helm high, chassis jutting out, hips swaying as much as possible without giving him an odd gait. Nobody stopped him from knocking on Crion’s door. 

“What?” Crion called, voice muffled by the door. Splint took it as his cue to enter. Crion looked up from a stack of paperwork. “Ah, Splat.”

“Splint.” He situated himself in one of the leather chairs facing Crion’s desk. 

“Right, Splint. What can I help you with? Last I recall, I told you to take a break.”

Splint folded his servos in his lap. “I did, and now I’m ready to work.”

Crion ran a servo down his faceplates. “Listen, kid, if you want to work again, you gotta put your all in it. Every client walks away satisfied, you hear?”

“Yessir.”

 

Splint decided to start his return off good, with a bit of a performance on the dancefloor. He’d been told before that the flashing lights caught his frame just right, and that, if he just moved his hips more, he’d be the hottest Bot out there. That, of course, had come from a customer, but he took it to heart anyway. Might as well make good of any advice he could get his servos on. 

Quite a few mechs had already ground against him, but none of them wanted to do anything else. It was odd, sure, but Splint kept up the dancing, even as he started to lose hope. Maybe he was doing something wrong, or maybe he just wasn’t as attractive as everyone said he was. His helm was thrown back, optics shuttered, when a servo landed on his shoulder. 

He jumped but tried to hide it with a smooth twirl. For a split second, his facade faltered. Giant, grinning, silver. Splint would recognize that face, that stature, anywhere. 

Under the ex-miner’s arm was a much smaller mech. He was scrawny and about half Splint’s height. His optics, an odd cyan, darted everywhere except Splint, but the mech keeping him standing oozed enough confidence to compensate for him. 

Splint regained his composure, biting his bottom lip. Over the drone of the music, he said, “My, my, aren’t you some attractive hunks.” The line, which he’d learned from Croon, felt stiff and rehearsed coming from him, but it made the tiny mech blush.

The giant silver mech laughed, a sound deep in his belly, echoing in the club. He nudged his smaller friend closer to Splint. “This is Detent. Detent, this,” the familiar mech’s optics trailed Splint’s frame. “Is the  _ lovely _ Bot that’s going to break your seals.”

Detent hiccuped, and the giant mech chuckled. He turned and headed to the bar, where he sat with a group of three other hulking mechs. Splint let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and took his client’s clammy servo. The mech visibly gulped. 

“Do you like to dance?” Splint asked. Even though many of his memories were a giant black canyon, he remembered how terrifying his first time had been. If this trembling Bot was anything like him, he’d need more than just a quick frag. Comfort was important too. 

Detent nodded, still avoiding Splint’s gaze. 

“Then dance with me,” Splint purred. He twirled his hips, trying to be enticing, but Detent didn’t move. So Splint backed up, slow, bent his knees, curved his spine. He gently brushed his aft against Detent’s pelvis, and the mech finally took the hint and grabbed his waist. 

Splint rocked back harder, trying to ignore the envious gazes of the mechs at the bar, but mostly  _ his  _ curious red optics. In a million years, Splint wouldn’t’ve guessed that the mech who started the uproar on Croetus 12 would come to a place like The Happy Mech. He looked exactly the same, but his black and yellow hazard detailing was faded. 

Detent started to thrust his closed, but searing, plating against Splint’s rear. Over his shoulder, Splint asked, “You like that, Detent?”

The mech froze, and Splint took the opportunity to snatch his servos and lead him to a vacant Service room. It was the only one open, and Splint wondered what would happen if he ever got a client but there were no rooms open. Would an aroused Bot be willing to wait?

Splint let Detent go into the room first, following and making sure the door was locked and the neon red Occupied sign was activated. When he turned around, Detent was standing there, unimpressive, twitching spike hanging out and curving towards his abdomen. Splint purred and sauntered over, one servo palming the little spike. 

“How do you want me, Detent?” 

Detent looked lost. He was gnawing on the inside of his cheek, so Splint encouraged him by getting on his knees and licking the underbelly of his spike. 

“How about we start with this,” Splint said, lapping up the transfluid beading in the slit of Detent’s green and yellow spike. He pulled back. “Unless you’d rather skip the foreplay?”

Detent’s optics were shuttered, but he shook his helm fervently. “N-no, this is g-good.”

Splint grinned and closed his mouth around the tip of his spike. He suckled for a little, pleased when Detent’s servos closed on the back of his helm and tried to push him down. Obligingly, Splint took the entire length into his mouth. It wasn’t a hard fit, and he bobbed his helm quickly, tasting Detent’s charge on his glossa. 

He paused. “Detent,” he commanded, a sultry groan hidden beneath his words. “Look at me.”

The inexperienced mech opened his optics, which widened immediately when Splint swallowed his whole spike. Their optics locked as the contractions of Splint’s throat and the swirling of his glossa made Detent overload, hot fluids gushing into Splint, who swallowed every bit of it. Detent thrust into his mouth, panting, fans running on high, and Splint stood, one servo still holding his spike. He captured Detent in a withering kiss, parting his lips just enough to let the smaller mech’s glossa slip in and taste the remnants of himself. 

“How did that feel?” Splint purred as they parted.

“A-amazing,” Detent panted. “I, I think I-I’m ready.”

Splint backed him against the wall, opening his panels as they moved. “Do you really want me to break your seal, or do you want to break me on that thick spike of yours?”

Detent gulped again. “I… Can I s-spike you and tell everyone you broke my s-seals?” His servos trembled as they slid their way down Splint’s sides. 

Grinding against Detent’s quivering thigh, Splint moaned, lips meeting his anxious client’s. The little mech melted into the touches, and he lined his spike up and slid home. Splint was barely wet, but it didn’t hurt, and there was such little friction. But the customer was panting, thrusting, groaning and moaning: all good signs. 

 

“T-that was great,” Detent sighed. 

He finished wiping his array clean and closing his panels. Splint sat next to him, already cleaned off, leaning back, trying to ignore the heat that playing with Detent had sparked but not quelled. 

“ _ You _ were amazing,” he purred. With his throbbing body starting to ache, he couldn’t help his mind slipping back to Traction. He shook his helm and snatched Detent’s lips in a harsh, sloppy kiss. “Should we go back to your friends?”

Detent didn’t have time to answer before Splint lifted him from the couch and, arms wrapped around one puny arm, marched him out the room. Maybe it was just the flare in his array that was messing with him, but Splint couldn’t focus on all the faces bobbing around them, passing by in blurs. He set his jaw and kept his composure as best he could, leading Detent to the bar, where his friends were. They were loud and boisterous, perched on the edges of their stools, massive arms propped on the bar. 

Shift, one of two barkeeps for the night, was pouring a concoction of highgrade and something yellow. She glanced up, shot a wink Splint’s way, and slid the drink across the bar to one of the bellowing mechs. Next to him, the giant silver mech was looking over his shoulder. He caught sight of Splint and Detent sauntering over, and swiveled to face them. 

“Well,” he rumbled, optics flashing with charge. “How was it?” Swirling the pure blue highgrade in his glass, he eyed Splint again. 

Detent smiled. “Fantastic.”


	11. "I know you."

Splint shifted from pede to pede. He knew better than to ask directly for a tip, but he also knew that too many mechs tried to play it off like they forgot about that little gratuity. Although they’d pay on their way out, where Crion would manage profits and unruly customers, tips were a big chunk of Splint’s income. 

The giant silver mech slipped off his seat, threw back the last of his drink, and slammed the glass on the bar. “My turn, then,” he rumbled, taking Splint’s arm and leading him to the back. 

Splint was caught off guard, and he was stumbling behind the mech before he could really understand what was happening. The mech, one massive arm furled around Splint’s waist, found an empty room and strode on in, locking the door behind them. And then the act was up.

The mech let go of Splint and eased into a chair by the door. He crossed his legs and waved a servo at the chair across from him. “Sit,” he said. 

Splint silently obeyed. “How would you like me?” he asked. The question was routine by then, just another rehearsed string of words that would keep a roof over his helm and energon in his tanks. 

“I know you.”

Splint frowned and tilted his helm, trying for an innocent ambiance. “Have you been here before?” He tried to smooth out the bits of his voice that were distinct: the sharp vowels, the slow draw and uncertainty he learned from the mines. 

The mech’s optics were searing right through him. “You used to live in the mines, didn’t you?”

Splint shook his helm. How in the Pits...

The mech settled back into his chair, humming in thought. “You know, when you work so closely with a Bot for so many centuries, and doing such arduous work, you subconsciously familiarize yourself with their field, their energy signature.”

Was that even possible?

“Your field is different now, fuller. But you’re still him. Still the mech that followed orders blindly, that basked in the obedience others would consider oppressive. Pits, it was all you knew, wasn’t it? And that’s why you are here.”

Splint fixed his optics on his servos. “You are wrong,” he muttered. “I am not, and do not know anyone, from Croetus 12.”

“I never said which outpost I knew you from.”

Splint’s knees rubbed together. The tension in the room hadn’t helped the gross need building in his array, and he really just needed to get everything out of his system. The emotions, the memories, the guilt, the shame. 

“If you are done,” Splint said. “I have work.”

The mech pushed up from his seat and sauntered over, towering over Splint. “Who said I’m not a customer?” He took Splint by the elbows and pulled him to stand, their chassis scraping. There was a fair size difference between the two, and the mech had to bend to kiss Splint. 

It was harsh and nipping, and a servo kneaded Splint’s aft, leaving him a gushing mess. He practically melted and didn’t even care when the mech’s glossa forced its way into his mouth, dominating him. Splint’s fans cycled on, and he blushed, pulling away. 

The mech growled, scoffing. “What?”

Splint jumped when the mech’s servo traveled lower on his thigh before hiking his leg up and wrapping it around his waist. 

“What’s your name?” Splint gasped as the mech ravished his neck with brutal, sloppy kisses. 

“If I tell you,” the mech rumbled. “You cannot tell anyone I was here.”

Splint arched, his panels sliding back to reveal his twitching spike and dripping valve. “I promise,” he whispered, hitching his hips to grind against the mech’s bulbous interface plating. 

The mech pulled away, detaching himself completely. He was halfway out the door when he turned and said, “Megatronus.”

Spike and valve out and agitated, Splint glared at the open door. Slagger. 

 

By the time Splint took care of himself and headed back out to the bar, Megatronus and crew had cleared out. The Happy Mech was near closing time, and Splint’s shift only had a few clicks left. He decided to spend them by the bar, although he leaned against the end rather than sitting. 

Shift stood next to him and cleaned glasses with a rag. She only had one Bot left on her stools, and he was hunkered over, probably passed out. 

“Saw you last night,” she said, inspecting a glass. “At Maccadam’s.”

Splint watched a few stray mechs dance in a huddled group, hips swaying to the slower beat, optics and visors dimmed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She placed the clean glass on a shelf behind her. “It ain’t my place to judge…”

“But?” The doors opened and Splint glanced to see who it was. Thankfully, it was just Gearlight heading out. 

Shift sighed. “I’ll put it bluntly; Relationships and whores don’t go together. Never ends well, kid. Your mech know what you do here?”

That familiar feeling of shame burnt through Splint’s circuits. Of course Traction knew what he did. Pits, it was how they met. 

“Whatever.” Shift stacked another clean glass behind her. “Just be careful, okay? If that mech of yours decides he won’t stand for this, you just let me know. I’ve got an extra bed at my place if you ever need it.”

Splint checked the clock. “Why are Bots so keen to helping strangers?” he muttered. 

“We’ve all gone through the same slag, and some of us know what it’s like to go it alone. Besides, you look like you need a friend.” Done with the glasses, she wiped down the bar. “If you’re happy, you don’t want to lose that. Trust me.”

Traction didn’t show. 

He never said he would, but over the last few cycles, it had become routine. One that comforted Splint, even if it made him worry too. Worry that Traction would come in one night and find him glued to another Bot, touching after-hours.

Splint gave up waiting once Bust, the bouncer, poked his helm in and said he was heading out. Shift had left a joor or so earlier, and Crion was on his way out too. As he passed, he slapped Splint’s aft. 

“Hey, good job today, kid. That scrawny first-timer and his pal gave you top ranks, even paid extra in tips.” He winked and sauntered out, two of his personal bodyguards tailing him. 

Splint, followed, standing on the street now, and watched numbly as they locked up. The night was warm and the air stuck uncomfortably to his slick armor. As he made his way home, Splint couldn’t help but think about Megatronus. 

What was a wanted mech doing in Iacon, of all places? Why was he such a tease… What did he want with Splint? He mulled over those questions, even as he reached the apartment complex and was punching the button for his floor in the elevator. 

In the suite, Croon was passed out, arm thrown over the back of the couch, energon dribbling from his gaping intake. Splint sighed and closed the door. He trudged over to his berth and flopped down, thankful for the give in the cushions. Although his shift hadn’t been all that arduous, Splint’s frame still felt like it was piped full of lead, and all he wanted to do was recharge. Yet, his processor wouldn’t stop running, and he still hadn’t “planted” the crystal powder Traction gave him. 

Sluggishly, Splint forced himself up. He grabbed the brown packet from his dresser and took it to the kitchen. There wasn’t much in any of their cupboards, but after some rummaging, he found a ceramic saucer that he hoped would do the trick.

Traction had said just to add water, so Splint poured the packet’s blue-green dust into the saucer and ran it under the faucet for a split second. The water mixed with the powder and swirled around the dish, like a miniature sea. For a minute, he just stood there, staring, waiting for something miraculous to happen. 

Croon shifted on the couch. “Splint?” he groaned.

“Sorry.” He didn’t take his optics off the saucer, worried that he’d miss something. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay. How was your night?”

“Fine.”

The couch creaked as Croon rolled off of it. He shuffled over to Splint, peering curiously around him at the saucer. “Fine? Doesn’t sound that great.”

Splint shifted on his pedes. “Yeah.”

“What is this?” Croon asked. 

Splint spared a glance at the smaller mech. “A gift.” In a mumble, he added, “It’s supposed to turn into a crystal.”

Croon backed off and leaned against the counter, folding his arms over his chassis. “Those take a little while to grow.”

“Oh.”

When Splint didn’t move, Croon took him by the arm, set the saucer down, and dragged him over to the couch. He left and returned with two cubes of highgrade. There was more than enough room on the couch for them to both sit comfortably, but he wedged himself right up against Splint. 

“So,” he said, passing Splint a cube. “What was so bad about work?”

Splint sipped his drink, relished the sting of it in his throat. Although it felt like it’d been eons since their escape from the mines, the fear and loss were still bitter. Splint worried that Croon would get upset if he started dredging all that up talking about Megatronus. 

“My client’s spike was so small.” He forced a lewd grin. “I barely felt a thing.”

Croon doubled over laughing, his energon splashing over the sides of the cube, staining the couch, but he didn’t seem to care. Splint laughed too, even as his mind wandered back to Megatronus, back to the mines, back to the suppressed emotions and the beatings. 


	12. Sick

The next few cycles, Splint felt like he was running in circles. He hadn’t seen Traction in nearly a week, Croon was always partying, and work was work. On good days, Splint could take three clients, and he was making a steady amount of money, but it didn’t feel right. With every other mech he imagined it was Traction instead of the stranger, and he got bored. Bored, if not lonely. 

Sure, there was Shift, and Gearlight wasn’t too rough around the edges, but neither were ever free after work. So, just like every other night, Splint slunk back to the apartment and passed out before Croon got home. 

 

Splint didn’t wake up until a joor before his shift at Happy started. He sat up, groggy, rubbing his optics with the back of his servo. Croon’s bed was empty, just like the rest of the suite. By the time Splint actually got up, he had to run to work and didn’t have any time to fuel up. 

Bust wasn’t at his post, but Splint didn’t have time to notice as he bolted into the club. He’d already had too many strikes and dreaded losing his job. Inside, the place was bouncing, odd when the suns had yet to set.

Shift grinned behind the bar, a slim mech chatting her audials off as she mixed his drink. Splint waved and she nodded her acknowledgment. 

Gearlight and a few others were already working the edges of the dancefloor, and no one noticed when Splint slipped by. The back rooms were all but empty, a few Bots dawdling before their shifts started, but the “prep room” was completely vacant. Splint settled in and closed the door with his pede, panels easing open.

He was tempted to take himself all the way, but as he brushed a servo over his flaccid spike, bile rose in his throat. Lurching, Splint gulped down the o-zone addled air. It felt like he was choking on nothing, throat closing around itself, knotting and twisting. He barely had the sense of mind to close his panels and stumble to the lounge, where he leaned against a sofa and clamped his mouth shut. When a bit of the fogginess in his processor faded, Splint ventured out to the bar, where everyone was busy at work. He was so close to the stage, so close to sitting in a patent leather chair and explaining to Crion why he needed to go. 

He was so close when a servo closed on his arm. Internally, Splint groaned. He turned a sour smile to whoever was handling him, but he didn’t have a chance to explain that he was out of order. The mech’s lips, terse and stiff, muted Splint’s claim. 

The mech, sporting grey and black paint and a red crest on his helm, struggled through a grin. “Where are you going, gorgeous?”

Splint cringed for the stranger’s sake. The mech was clearly uncomfortable, with his stiff shoulders, the crack of his voice, the way he leaned back and barely touched Splint. Another surge of bile rose in Splint’s throat and he keeled over, barely managing to clamp a servo over his intake. He was clearly sick, but the damned mech didn’t leave, and when Splint tried to slip behind the stage, his grip tightened. 

“I just want to talk,” the stranger rumbled. 

Splint’s knees turned weak. How badly he wished Traction was there. Worried that he’d purge his tanks if he opened his mouth, Splint just shook his helm. The mech was lifting him to stand when Bust came to his rescue. 

Planting two massive servos on the stranger’s shoulders, Bust rumbled, “Hey, pal, why don’t you and me go for a walk. Out the door.”

The stranger scowled and shrugged off Bust’s hold. “I know where the door is.” Before Bust escorted him out he sent one last withering glare in Splint’s direction. 

Splint stumbled to Crion’s office, not bothering to knock. When the door swung open, Crion froze mid-thrust into a dripping green valve. The femme was bent over the desk, aft canted high and Crion plowing into her from behind. 

“Spill!” Crion hissed. “What are you doing here?”

Splint didn’t bother correcting him. “I feel sick, sir. May I go?”

The femme whined and wiggled her hips. Splint didn’t recognize her from the lounge or bar.

“I suppose,” Crion said. “You’ve been doing exceptionally well, and if you’re sick we wouldn’t want you purging all over a customer.”

The femme groaned, “Gross.”

Splint nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Crion shushed the femme. “Mhm, now get out of here.” 

Splint left as fast as he could, but not before he got an eyeful of hiss boss’ spike pounding a tiny green valve. The sight reminded him of the time he was the one on the receiving end, and he had to swallow down vomit. The club around him was a swimming cesspool of colors and grabbing servos, and he just barely made it through to the door. He sent a comm. ping to Traction, the only mech running through his processor, but it was ignored. 

Splint couldn’t help thinking that. 

He didn’t bother leaving a message, although he thought he might. Just for a moment. Instead, he thought, in some foolhardy stubborn streak, that he could make it back to the apartment on his own.

Of course, he was too weak. Too exhausted from the sheer effort of not purging his tanks and collapsing, that he ended up doing exactly that. It was cold, clouds were rolling over the city, and the suns had only just set. That said, the streets were quiet. In a joor or so, the partiers would be out. 

Splint shivered next to the road as a pair of clanging pedes stomped by. He closed his optics and prayed that it would be Traction. It wasn’t. It never was. 


	13. Help Me, Please

Splint didn’t think he’d gone into recharge until he was cycling back on and cuffed, upright, to the bar welded on top of a table. He squinted in the fluorescent lighting, taking in the room with its plain white walls, reinforced steel door, two chairs bolted to the floor, metal table also bolted down, and the giant black-out glass panel in front of him. The stasis cuffs pinched the sensitive armor around his wrist as he twisted, testing the strength. His processor was clear enough to form all the right questions: Where am I: How did I get here: Am I going to die?

Although Splint admitted the last one was a bit of a stretch, knowing that didn’t help his nerves. Or his tanks. He wondered how long it had been since closing time, and if he’d been drugged all along. His tanks gave another lurch, and he dry heaved just as the door was unlocked and the Bot from the club marched in. The Bot frowned as he pulled out the chair on the other side of the table. His partner, a lanky orange and yellow mech, entered and closed the door behind him. The first mech crossed his arms over his chassis. The second hovered at the edge of the table, a manila file in hand. 

“Tell us your name and address,” the first demanded. 

Splint glanced between the mechs. His following words came out in a hot blur. “Who are you? Where am I?”

The lanky Bot let out a dry chuckle. “Never been in a police station?”

“You’re under arrest,” the first said. He leaned forward. “Name and address.”

Splint ran his unshackled servo down his face. If they were officers, logic told him to speak, tell the truth. But that piece of him that knew what truth lead to in the mines, goaded him into lying, or at least withholding information. 

“Why am I here?” he asked. 

The lanky guy sighed. “Well, we skipped introductions. I’m Chromedome, and that there,” he jut a thumb in the other’s direction. “Is Prowl. We have been tasked with finding stowaway criminals from a certain mine.”

Splint dry heaved again, but tried to choke it down. 

“We have reason to believe that you know more about Croetus 12 than we do.” Chromedome flipped open the manila folder. “Recognize any of these mechs?”

It was a redundant question, since Splint was in every picture, be it on the edge of a crowd or right next to someone. Most of the images featured miners at work, but a handful were more recent, with Traction and Croon. Splint grazed his free servo over a picture of Traction and him walking, at night, probably towards one of their apartments. 

Not looking up, Splint muttered, “When did you take these?”

“We weren’t out following you with a camera, if that’s what you’re asking,” Chromedome answered. “Now, can you verify that your designation is Splint, and that you are living on Cript Avenue, in the apartment building?”

Splint, against his instinct, nodded. 

Prowl snapped, “Verbal confirmation.”

“Yes. I live there.” Splint knew he was cornered, was well aware that he was clueless, barely knew his basic rights. The one he did remember stuck to the roof of his intake as he asked about it. “Can I make a call?”

Begrudgingly, they agreed. They unjammed Splint’s communications system long enough for him to call Croon. There was no answer, and his tanks lurched when the same happened with Traction. Holding his digit up to signal that he needed more time, Splint tried to form a comm link with Bust, Happy’s esteemed bouncer. 

“Yo?” 

It was a simple answer, but Splint could already feel the dread start to lift off his shoulders. “Bust, it’s Splint, from work.”

“Yeah, yeah I know you. Somethin’ wrong? It’s late, man.”

Splint took a deep breath, letting his answer ride out on the exhale. Bust’s line went silent for a moment. 

“Alright, listen.” His voice was terse and firm now. “I’ll get Crion, but ‘till we show up, don’t say a fraggin’ word to them pigs, got it?”

Nodding to himself, Splint let his balled fists relax. “Thank you so much, Bust.”

“‘Course. Crion doesn’t mess around when it comes to slag like this.”

And the line went dead. 

 

The room was considerably crowded, Chromedome and Prowl on one side, and Bust, Crion, and Splint on the other. It was hot and everyone was tired, but Splint was the only one yawning. 

Crion had brought with him a manila folder ten times thicker than Chromedome’s. He dropped it on the table and planted his servos on either side, leaning to glare at the officers. “Shall we get started,  _ gentlemen _ ?”

Prowl stood, easily dwarfing Crion. “Your employee is in holding while we investigate his connection to the Croetus 12 riot. We have visual evidence that proves he arrived on Cybertron the cycle of the uprising.”

Crion twisted his helm just enough to shoot Splint a wink. Facing Prowl again, he flipped through his file and pushed a collection of CCTV snapshots and video rolls over the table. “That’s odd, since I’ve got tapes of him in my establishment two weeks before the Croetus business.”

Prowl scowled. “Tapes? That’s all?”

“That is all you have, isn’t it?” Crion countered. “But, if you must have them, I’ve also got official records of employment for this here hunk. And, from what I understand, you’re tryin’ to hold him on grounds of suspicion?” He snatched one of Chromedome’s pictures, tapping it with his digits. “Pits, this don’t even look like Splint. I could bring this whole place down for wrongfully convicting an innocent, government supporting Cybertron citizen.”

Splint would have been more impressed that Crion got his name right, had Prowl not leaned over to unlock the stasis cuffs. Chromedome opened the door. 

“You know your way out, Crion,” he grumbled. 

Crion’s chin couldn’t have been lifted any higher if he tried. He lead the way out the building, Bust and Splint on his heels, and Prowl and Chromedome tailing them. When they were finally free of the station and a few blocks down, Splint paused to lean against a building. His tanks were still bothering him, and that incessant pounding in his helm returned full-blast. 

To distract himself, he asked Crion, “How did you do that?”

Crion grinned. “Can’t give away my secrets, kid.” He glanced down the street. “It ain’t my first time dealin’ with the law.”

Splint couldn’t help but grin. Maybe Crion cared more than he let on. 

Bust took Splint’s servo and helped him stand without the shopfront. “Let’s get you home, man.”


	14. Strain and Longing

By the time Croon stumbled into their suite, Splint had called Traction twice more and was on his fifth cube of highgrade. Since he got home, his tanks had settled enough to handle the bitter sweet intoxicant, and he was tripping closer and closer to pass-out drunk. No matter how much he drank though, he couldn’t get Traction out of his head. So, when Croon closed the door, a slim green mech latched to his hips, Splint slipped by and headed to the elevator. A few times he had to catch himself on a wall or passing mech, slurring apologies, muttering something about getting to the top floor. 

More than once, when he grabbed an arm or a shoulder for balance, he was shoved aside, slammed into the wall, kicked to the ground. The battering turned him around more than once, and he found himself at a dead end, stomach churning, vision swimming. So he slid down the wall, hunched over, and heaved up his highgrade. There was a tiny voice in the back of his processor, telling him to call Traction one more time, but it was interrupted when a suite door on the corner opened and loud, bouncing music poured out. Splint bowed his helm, tucking it in his arms and praying that none of the sexy, perfect ‘bots exiting would see him. A few cast him disgusted glances, but they didn’t come any closer. 

The door shut, muting the music, and the group’s clammer faded down the hall. Splint’s optics started to drift shut, but a yank on his wrist made them snap open. 

Doll, a sour expression twisting his lips, glared down at Splint. He tugged on his arm again. “Hey, you alive?” Splint lifted his helm and watched Doll roll his optics. “Slag, I was thinkin’ I’d help you, but if you’re just going to be a dick again, I better get going.” 

He made to leave, but Splint reached out, feeble and pathetic. “W-wait.”

Doll stopped walking but didn’t turn around. “For what?”

“Wher ‘m ah?” Splint shook his helm, frustrated but unable to do anything else. He tried to get up, but his legs felt like prosthetics he didn’t have any control over, and he collapsed back into his own mess. 

“Overdid it tonight, huh?” Doll ran a servo down his immaculate face. He eyed the upheaved sick splattered everywhere and cringed. “Is there someone who can come get you? No way in the Pits am I touching any of that.”

Splint tilted his helm back, hitting the wall with a ‘thunk’. “Alrey tried,” he slurred. 

“Security it is, then.”

 

When Splint woke up with a throbbing headache, a bucket next to his bed, and Traction passed out on the couch, he wasn’t sure what to think. He rolled over, biting back a groan so he didn’t wake Traction or Croon up. 

There was a note on his nightstand, stuck to a glass of energon.  _ Drink me,  _ signed  _ Doll _ . Splint’s tanks flipped at the thought of eating, or doing anything really, so he laid in bed, watching Traction’s chassis rise and fall. He didn’t know how the lumbering mech had gotten there, but he didn’t want to ask. After a while, he started to nod off again, and was too drained to not succumb. 

_ Splint was young, only recently sent to the mines, but he felt older, more experienced. In his mind, he was a capable young mech. But, as always, when his superior shushed him and dragged him to the washracks in the middle of the night, he was helpless. It still hurt, and he still watched his energon and the other mech’s transfluid mix and disappear down the drain. Every night, it happened again, and again, until he was moaning and crying for release, confused and falling to his knees for a mech who  _ cured  _ him of his purity, a mech who cared enough to  _ help  _ him. But, the dream always ended the same; Splint was under the mech, professing his unrequited love, and the mech laughed. Laughed in his face, overloaded, and left.  _

Traction was shaking him, shaking him and moving his lips, but Splint couldn’t hear him. Traction helped him sit up, one massive servo on the small of his back, and it was so warm and Splint leaned into the touch. 

“You were groaning in your sleep,” Traction whispered. “Are you alright?”

Splint nodded, resting his helm on the larger mech’s shoulder. They sat like that for a while, melding together, fields entwining. 

“Croon told me what happened…” Traction muttered, breaking the silence. His thumb rubbed slow circles on Splint’s spine. “I am so, so sorry.”

Splint shrugged, still hazy from his hangover. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

Traction’s thumb stopped moving and he pulled away. “But it does. I should’ve been there for you!”

“Can we talk later?” Splint mumbled, curling into a ball on his bed. “I need to rest before work.”

The bed shifted as Traction stood. He walked to the head of the bed and squatted so he was optic-level with Splint. “No. I know you’re hungover, but you can rest at my place.”

Splint closed his optics. “Where’s Croon?”

“Left early to move your things to my place.”

“What?” Splint jolted upward, instantly regretting it and cradling his helm in trembling servos. “We didn’t ta—”

Traction carefully took Splint’s servos in his own, engulfing them in his warmth and gentle touch. “I know. I’ve been trying to figure out when to ask you, but what happened last night proved to me that, if I asked, you would have said no. You’re scared, I understand, but you need to get out of this place for a little while. Take a break, stay with me.” His optics were so wide and hopeful, childish in their longing. 

Splint grimaced. “How do we know that… that any of this will work out?”

“We don’t. But if you —we— can’t handle it, then we’ll go from there.”


	15. Belonging

As much as Traction hated it, Splint was able to convince him to go back to work. For now, he said, also promising to pick Splint up after every shift. They both considered it a decent compromise, and Splint for once didn’t walk to work alone. It was nice, having his own personal bodyguard but small talk was tense, and it was more of a relief than anything when they made it to Happy and Splint disappeared inside. Bust was by the bar, talking to a horned purple and red mech, but he nodded when Splint passed. The events from the night before fogged the air between them, between Splint and everyone around him. How many would sell him out if they got a few quids in return? Would anyone help him?

The place was bouncing, pheromones and ozone overwhelming and sparking a welcome distraction in Splint’s valve. By the time he finished dolling himself up in the back rooms, that distraction was all but dripping. On the dancefloor, he swayed his hips with abandon, desperate to attract a mech intent on spiking. It was base coding, and Splint couldn’t ignore the trained, throbbing ache in his valve. Soon enough, there were fat servos on his hips, pulling his aft against a searing interface panel. The mech was so worked up he all but led Splint to an open room. His spike was short, but made up for it in girth. Splint didn’t overload. Not for that customer, or the other two he picked up. He faked it, of course, made all the sounds of a Bot in the throes: a mech once taught him that it was better to fake it than demand more. In the few moments he was allotted to clean up and get back to work, he quickly discovered his digits weren’t enough either.

The coil of electricity in Splint’s tanks lashed out and sparked when Traction reappeared and they started their walk home. Their digits entwined, fields warm and relaxed, the quiet streets, it was almost enough to make Splint forget about his past, about the desperation in his body, but it was always there, lingering. There was small talk, he was sure of it, but his processor was too fritzed to remember any of it. All Splint knew was that one second they were opening the door, the next he was dancing in Traction’s lap, panels open. 

Traction’s servos reached for swaying hips, ghosting over smooth thighs as Splint twisted. Drunk off his own pheromones, Splint rubbed his aft against anything he could reach; massive thighs, pelvis, heaving chassis, and his reward was the thrum in his valve, the promise of a good night. 

Below them, a neighbor was blasting music, and usually they would grump about it, but that night it felt special. Just for them. The lights were off, but the windows open, blue from surrounding buildings filtering in. And Splint was in the center, dancing with his helm thrown back, curvy frame reflecting the glow of the night sky, valve on display. Neither mech would change a thing. 

When they came together that night, it was the best frag either mech ever experienced. Raw passion and a drive for submission and domination left them screaming for more, crying each other’s names. Traction snapped his hips, closing a servo around the back of Splint’s neck, all but growling, “You like that?”

Splint could only mewl in response, rocking back onto his twitching spike. Traction’s engines revved in response. He leaned closer, chassis scraping Splint’s arching backstruts. 

“Those mechs at work don’t know what you like.” Traction struck Splint’s ceiling node and they quivered with untapped lust. “I do,” he rumbled. “I’m the one who makes you scream. I’m the one you overload for. The only one.”

 

Work wasn’t the same after that night. Splint lost interest, rarely getting off on the strangers he round up. He got used to walking home with Traction, if they even made it that far before they fragged. A divot was growing in Traction’s bed where Splint laid every night, curled into the warmth of his partner. In the mornings, Traction left early for work, notes on the counter describing what he’d be doing and when he’d be back. It was comforting, knowing that someone was always thinking of him, that he belonged somewhere. And not just anywhere: in Traction’s arms. 


	16. Everything

The Bot was just as intimidating in their doorway as he was in the mines and in The Happy Mech. Although his yellow and black striped hazard detailing was gone and his metal gleamed with a fresh polish, he was undeniably frightening. Subconsciously, Splint shrank behind Traction, who was too busy shaking servos with the mech to notice. 

“Megatronus, good to see you!” Traction beamed. Splint jumped when a servo landed on his hip. “This is Splint, my partner. Splint, Megs here is another gladiator on my shift.”

Splint’s servo was limp when Megatronus shook it. The giant mech frowned, but covered it with niceties. 

“I’ve heard much about you, Splint,” he said, sending it with a curt smile. “How is the apartment suiting you?”

Splint swallowed the lump in his throat, shame coloring his expression. “It’s nice. Much nicer than what I’m used to.” He winced when he realized what he’d said. Would it give him away? When he’d met Megatronus at Happy, he was careful not to bring up the mines, worried about what the mech’s reaction might be. If someone was bold enough to throw a pickaxe at Senator Decimus, he was beyond unpredictable: dangerous. 

Megatronus’ faceplates remained lax, no signs of recognition. Traction invited him in and they situated themselves on the assorted furniture in the living room. Splint and Traction sat opposite Megatronus on the couch, but Splint still felt too close to him. It was suiting, Splint thought, that the mech had become a gladiator. 

Traction stood, having barely touched the couch. “Energon, anyone?”

Megatronus’ optics flicked to Splint and back. “Yes, please. The roads are dustier than usual; I could use something soothing.”

Splint sat with his legs closed and his servos folded in his lap, looking anywhere but the mech sitting across from him. The second Traction disappeared into the kitchen, Megatronus leaned forward. Splint pressed back, praying to disappear. 

“Are you happy with Traction,” he asked, optics squinting. It felt more like a threat than a light conversation starter. 

Splint nodded. 

“Good. If you hur—”

He cut short as Traction popped back out of the kitchen, juggling three cubes of highgrade. “Oh good, I was hoping you wouldn’t sit in silence,” he chirped. 

Splint uncrossed his legs, accepting a cube. 

Megatronus chuckled, tension gone. He crossed an ankle over his knee, tapping his pede. “So, how is it you two met?”

Splint knew, from all his nights out with Croon, that it was just small talk, but it still made his faceplates burn. He sipped the energon to cool down. Traction tossed an arm around his shoulders and downed half of his highgrade. 

“That’s an interesting story,” he said. “But one for another time.”

Megatronus grinned but hid it with his cube. 

“So.” Traction cleared his throat. “What brings you here today, friend?”

“Ah, yes. I’d almost forgotten.” Megatronus tapped his digits on his cube. “You’ve been offered a raise. Clench wanted to tell you, but I convinced him to let me come instead.”

Splint felt the tension knotting in Traction’s side. What does a raise mean in the gladiator circuit? Traction’s arm disappeared from around him. 

“Splint, would you mind running to the store for some more energon?” Traction asked, optics glued to Megatronus’. His digits creaked around his cube of highgrade. 

Obeying, like a lost bumble puppy, Splint walked out. He wondered, of course, why he wasn’t allowed to stay, and the longer he thought about it, the angrier he got. Did Traction not trust him? After everything they’d done, he wasn’t allowed to shut him out. He shouldn’t be able to, at least. Splint, lost in his raving, walked right passed the store. He ended up in The Happy Mech chatting with Bust, but it felt hollow and suffocating, so he retreated to the streets. He milled around for a while, staring blankly at storefronts and energon stands. A young couple walked by, two lithe femmes, each cradling a sparkling. 

Splint’s tanks turned to knots. He never thought about bitlits before, let alone having his own. In the mines, it wasn’t an option, but on Cybertron, with Traction, living comfortably and feeling safe, something felt different. Like this gnawing at his tanks was natural instinct to reproduce while the circumstances were fitting. 

Shaking the idea from his processor, Splint headed home, tired of wandering alone. 

Traction barely glanced up when Splint opened the door. He was alone in the apartment, cleaning up empty cubes of highgrade and floating around the apartment tidying up. His lips were pressed tight together, jaw clenched. 

Splint quietly closed the door and walked over, snaking his arms around Traction’s waist, nuzzling his cheek into the larger mech’s spine. “Do you trust me?” he whispered. 

Traction cycled a deep breath, not moving otherwise. “Sometimes I get scared, that you’re going to leave me if you know too much.”

“You don’t, then.” Splint wanted to reassure him that he’d never leave, no matter what, but he wasn’t sure that was the truth. All he knew for certain was that Traction was one of his only remaining lifelines, and without him, he’d drown. He hadn’t spoken to Croon since he moved, and that was the only other escape he knew. 

Traction turned around and held Splint at arm’s length. “I don’t want to lose you, Splint. You’re one of the few things in this crazy world that keeps me sane. I can’t let that change.”

Splint entwined his digits with Traction’s. “I won’t leave you,” he croaked. “If you don’t leave me.”

Traction’s warm servos cupped Splint’s face as he leaned to press their forehelms together. “I will never. I love you. Every night, I want to come home to you. I want to start a family with you, grow old with you.” 

His lips touched the bridge of Splint’s nose, and he left a trail of kisses down to his lips. It wasn’t a fight for dominance, it was a quiet, insistent longing, a slow burning passion that moved them to the couch. Curled up in Traction’s lap, Splint smoothed his servos over his chassis. 

“I’m going to quit Happy.”

Traction fought a smile. “Why?”

Glancing at his closed interface array, Splint frowned. In his helm he imagined a small lump forming in his gestation chamber, and pride and hope overwhelmed him. Coolant brimmed his optics and he tucked his face into Traction’s neck to hide his tears. The last mech he committed himself to laughed in his face and never touched him again. What if. . . 

Traction hugged Splint tight, sensing the distress in his field, and hummed to try and comfort him. When that didn’t work, he sat in silence and let Splint cry. 

The silence was killing Splint. He could hear his sniffling, pathetic and weak, as he cried. He couldn’t imagine telling Traction why there were tears running down his armor, so he cleared his throat finally and tried to sit up. One steady servo on his backstruts helped him. 

“Splint,” Traction whispered. “What’s wrong?”

It took him a moment to answer. “I. . .” He swiped at his optics. “I’ll quit because I love you, and I  _ need  _ your trust. I need everything about you. My spark. . . it aches to give you everything it can.”


	17. What Trust Looks Like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if I ever wrote this directly, but gladiator fights are socially acceptable in this universe.

Splint wasn’t sure they ever actually talked about Megatronus’ visit, or Traction’s raise. All he really knew was that there were longer hours and more quids. Quids that were being saved for their future together. Every time Traction came home, he was exhausted and sore. Somehow, though, he always managed a smile and a kiss for Splint. 

After a few cycles, Splint ran out of things to do at the apartment. He wandered the house for a few joors, thoughts cycling with doubt and fear and loneliness. None of it faded away as he jogged out of the building and into the bustling city streets. The colosseum wasn’t hard to find; smack in the center of Iacon, right underneath the noses of every prestigious and self-righteous mech on Cybertron. 

Splint exchanged a couple of quids for a ticket and shouldered his way through the chanting crowds, into the stadium. The only open seat he could find was at the very top of the stadium, and his view was blocked by a billboard for new tires. On every side, shoulders bumped into him, Bots spilled their cheap highgrade on his lap, and all he could do was listen to the speakers. Half of the time he couldn’t hear them, but at the beginning of the next match, as the announcers hyped up the contendants, a low roar started to shake the stadium. 

The overhead speakers blared something that sounded like ‘action, rookie fighter.’ Like someone flipped a switch, the crowd burst with cheers and screams for “Traction! Traction! You’re awesome! Over here! Traction!”

A pit sank in Splint’s tanks. As Traction’s opponent was announced, he barrelled his way down the stairs, slipping past slow Bots and stumbling over himself. By the time he reached the bottom, the fight had already begun. Shoving a drunk mech out of the way, he watched a green and pink femme lunge at Traction, but he struck her down midair and landed a kick to her helm. It snapped back and the crowd gasped. 

Behind Splint, someone murmured, “It over already? Slag, he’s good.”

Traction stepped back, apparently waiting for the femme to get back up. She didn’t. 

It was the end of the match, and Traction was declared the winner. As the femme’s body was dragged out of the arena, Splint leaned over the railing and wailed for Traction. He screamed until his throat gave out, but it was no use. The whole stadium was screaming his name, how would he possibly be able to hear one little mech?

Splint bolted for the main gate. He saw a sign for the catacombs when he came in, and he just hoped that he could find Traction before someone else found him.

He couldn’t even get through the door. Two mechs with guns guarded it, blank faced and disregarding as Splint explained he needed to talk to Traction. Every other mech and femme, even a few bitlits, screamed the same thing. 

And then the door was opening, two guards coming out first, followed by Megatronous who was flanked by two more. In the rush of Bots swarming the famed gladiator, one of the door guards fought back crazed fans, leaving the smallest possible gap for Splint to slip past. The door was hardly an inch from closing, so he caught it with his pede and let it shut behind him. The catacombs were musty and reeked of spilled energon and organic waste. Splint ran down the hall, and for a while he didn’t see anyone, until he reached a section that broke off under the arena, and suddenly there were gladiators everywhere. A few mechs noticed him, watched, bemused, as he rushed pass. 

“Wonder how far he’ll get,” one joked. 

“Pfft, he’ll get squished before he gets caught.” The pair laughed. 

A femme, sleek black, stopped Splint, yanking on his arm until it threatened to pop out of its socket. He cursed and kicked at her, but she was a professional killer, and he was nothing, so she clocked him in the side of the helm and tossed him into an empty pen. The crowded hall echoed with laughter. 

 

Angry servos shook Splint awake, pinching and slapping him. He felt exhausted, and his helm and arm were throbbing, but the glaring blue optics above him held no sympathy. Megatronus yanked him to a standing position, letting him sway on his pedes. Optics adjusting, he saw they were still in the pen, but the door was open. 

“What in the Pitts were you thinking,” Megatronus snapped, servo tightening on his arm. 

“I-I need to—”

“You need to go home!” Megatronus dragged him out of the pen and down the hallway, towards the exit. All the jokes and taunts about taking out the trash bounced around Splint’s processor, forcing reality back onto him. 

Digging his heels into the floor, Splint struggled to stop Megatronus. “Wait, I need to talk to Traction!” he shouted. 

Megatronus paused. “You can talk to him when he gets back.” His voice was calmer now that they were further away from the other gladiators. 

“He killed her, didn’t he?”

There was no response. 


	18. Back to the Mines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is filled with potential rape/non-con triggers. Won't be so rough in the coming chapters.

Splint was drunk, too drunk to get off the couch when the door opened. He had calmed down and was cradling the empty energon cube that now held his homegrown crystal. He’d been keeping it under the berth, but pulled it out to hold when he started getting tipsy and emotional. The crystal grew two strong branches, flecks of stray colors tainting the pure pink, but it was beautiful and emitted a faint hum similar to that of the Crystal Gardens’. It was comforting in its own odd way. 

A snarling mech rounded the couch. In a split second, the mech was on top of Splint, his weight pressing him into the couch, breath hot against his chassis. The crystals were shoved aside and shattered on the floor. They crunched under the mech’s pedes. 

“Is this what you want?” The familiar voice growled, servos tugging harshly on flared plating, teeth gnashing. Splint whined, fear sobering him. “You always were a little slut.”

Splint froze, registering something beyond pure terror. The energy field that was clashing with his, it wasn’t foreign. Distant, but not alien. The mech’s voice. . . In the back of Splint’s mind he could hear that same gravelly, disgusted voice telling him to bend over, open up. Be a good little piece of wetware. Wreckstop.

Wreckstop’s digits dug under Splint’s interface panel, all but ripping the guard right off. Splint writhed beneath him, hissing through his dentae at the pain sprouting from his array. Palms flat against the gladiator’s chassis, struggling to push him off. The mech barely budged, and his advances became more persistent. Splint shouted from under him, but Wreckstop’s grip only tightened, so much so that his claws dug into Splint’s armor, scraping and drawing energon.

“Is this what you want?” Wreckstop roared, ripping Splint’s codpiece off with one last yank and tossing the bloody metal to the side.

Splint screamed, optics flashing static. All he could do was writhe and kick and claw, helpless and disarmed. His processor was glitching uncontrollably, barely able to send an emergency ping to Traction. 

There was banging at the door, neighbors yelling for them to shut the frag up. Rather than stopping Wreckstop, the looming mech just slammed a servo over Splint’s gaping intake and continued. 

Splint shuttered his optics and went limp as Wreckstop took him back to the showers on Croetus. His mind cleared but for the humiliation and the deep seeded pain in his chassis. Before Wreckstop overloaded the first time, Splint managed to send seven more emergency pings; six to Traction, one to Megatron. He didn’t have the processor capacity to encode the messages, or even say anything. So he laid there, sprawled on the couch, Traction’s favorite couch, and imagined what it would be like to float in empty space. In the mines, the spinning galaxies and consuming darkness was always his escape. But it didn’t work here. 

Here, he pictured Traction in the Crystal Gardens, his massive, clumsy frame appearing stoic and peaceful, for once not in motion, the light bouncing off the crystals and reflecting onto him. He was so gorgeous and his optics always turned to Splint, he always extended his servo, entwined their digits. 

Splint bit back a sob as his tanks filled with fresh transfluid and he was flipped on his back. He kept his optics shuttered and audials disconnected, praying to Primus that his frame go into emergency stasis, but it never happened. He was awake for everything, felt everything. He was certain that no one would come for him, that he’d be left to Wreckstop as a valve trophy. He would die on his hands and knees, begging for it to stop, only for it to get worse. 

Wreckstop was slowing down, on his fourth overload, but during the third he’d revealed a dagger attached to his hip. He’d dragged it down the small of Splint’s back, with enough pressure to form gauges.

Wreckstop was cleaning himself off, gripping the knife tight, lifting it over his helm, when the apartment door was all but trampled. Four mechs and a femme stormed in, most of them chipping away at the doorframe as they passed through. Megatronus was in the front, and he didn’t wait a second to fire his plasma cannon. Splint screamed from the thunderous noise the weapon made, and from the energon and processor matter splattering him afterwards. 

Megatronus’ optics lingered on Splint before he started spouting orders. Skeeve, no longer teasing and annoying, obeyed wordlessly as he took care of the body. The femme, the same one who stopped Splint in the catacombs, dutifully guarded the outside of the building as she called for a medic. The fourth, called Drixco, guarded the door to the apartment, guns at the ready. 

Skeeve disappeared with Wreckstop’s remains, but Splint couldn’t help the sobs that wracked him. Megatronus pulled a chair up to him and perched on the edge, acutely aware of the spilt energon soaking the cushions beneath him. He leaned forward, carefully extending his servos for Splint to grasp. 

Splint shrank into the couch, curled into as small a ball as he could manage. Those servos were too big, too threatening. They could do anything to him, use him like a toy, discard him, hurt him. 

Megatronus slowly whispered, “I will not hurt you, Splint. You are safe.”

The femme, Trotter, reappeared in the doorway. “Sir, Doc’s got a place we can take him. Just down the road. It will be faster if we take him. Ambulances are off duty and Doc’s too far away.”

Megatronus nodded as he stood. “Understood. We will transport him immediately.”

Splint was a blubbering, hissing, sobbing mess when Megatronus picked him up. The smaller mech feebly kicked and punched at his chassis, but he was held tight. The field surrounding his was tense, but exuded empathy and attempted comfort.


	19. Lies

The clinic was, technically, closed. All the doctors had left for the night, and the red and white mech that let them in was an intern who stayed late to file paperwork. Megatronus, sitting next to Splint as he was worked on, explained that the mech was once a student of the medic welding his back. Ratchet, was his name. The bot was very hands on, carefully making sure that Splint was calm and that Doc, the gladiators’ medic, had everything he needed to mend the damage done to Splint. It made his work harder since Splint refused to be anesthetized and kept jumping when his valve was touched. 

Once the procedures were done, and Splint’s vitals stabilized, everyone but Megatronus left. Having Megatronus right next to him was somewhat comforting; although he couldn’t explain it. He was drowsy and sore, so beyond sore that he couldn’t find the proper words for the pain, but Megatronus sat pensively next to him, staring straight ahead, arms crossed and slouched. There was a fresh pair of scars marring his lips, and he subconsciously ran his glossa over them. 

Turning his helm a fraction to the left, Splint husked, “Where. . . is Traction?”

Megatronus ran a servo down his exhausted faceplates. He opened his mouth twice, but struggled to find the right words. If Splint was to get worked up so soon after. . . It would have a negative effect on the healing process. 

“Traction,” he started. “Is safe and healthy right now. He got hurt pretty bad in his last match, but it was nothing the medics couldn’t patch up.”

Splint bit his lip, struggling to suppress a fresh batch of tears. Megatronus shuttered his optics. “It’s okay, all of this. . . suppression is going to end soon,” he rumbled. “I promise you I can change Cybertron, fix her.” There was a new passion sparking behind his optics. His fists clenched on the chair arms, threatening to crush them. 

“W-what do you mean?” Splint rasped as his exhaustion crept up on him.

Megatronus’ gaze was fierce. “The enslaving of lower class mechs and femmes, forcing them into the mines, our skewered political system: I am going to destroy them all. And when I’m done, you will have a safe place to raise sparklings with Traction. I promise you that.”


	20. Therapy Session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter occurs post-war, in which Splint was one of the mechs to join Rodimus Prime on his quest in the first issue of More Than Meets The Eye.

“Of course it was all lies,” Splint snapped. He shook his helm, scoffing to himself. 

Rung turned off the recorder he used to archive all of their sessions. “Perhaps it wasn’t, and his intentions were true. . . a very long time ago.” He uncrossed and crossed his legs, peering up at the torn Autobot. “I believe it is time we talk about Traction. In our previous sessions, you refused to elaborate on his. . . ending.”

Splint scowled, suddenly aware of the phantom pain from a terminated spark bond. “I told you what happened, you don’t need to know anything else.”

“You told me that he died.” Rung adjusted his glasses. “Not how, why, when, just that he died. Why is that?”

Splint glanced at the dormant recorder. “Off record?” Rung nodded, patiently waiting for him to continue. “Traction was in a clinic, downtown Iacon. . .” his voice trailed off, throat clenching. 

“Why was he there?” Rung pushed.

“Was carryin’. Our first.” Splint clenched his jaw and stared at the ceiling, fighting back tears he’d already cried. In reality, he ran out of coolant to cry centuries ago. “Megatron ordered four bombs to be dropped on the area, two to destroy the clinics and two random, to cause the most casualties.”

Rung sighed. “Iacon was still an Autobot territory at the time?”

“Yeah.”

“And if you were to come face to face with Megatron, what would you do?” The recorder was turned on again. Both therapist and patient knew damn well that Megatron was to join the crew of the Lost Light in a handful of cycles. His answer was critical. 

Splint leaned forward, close enough to make sure the recorder picked up every word. “I will kill him. Rip his fragging spark out of his chassis and see how he likes it. Dangle happiness in front of him and kill it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading ^-^*


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